


The Drowned Ceremony of Innocence

by Firefly_Ca



Series: A Century of Sleep [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Horror, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marvel Cameos, Medical Experimentation, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:05:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 55,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firefly_Ca/pseuds/Firefly_Ca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve, Sam, and Natasha try to help Bucky regain his sense of self after the events of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1654481/chapters/3509276">A Century of Sleep</a> (which is mostly the events of the first two Cap movies but with more angst added to their childhoods because I am an awful person). Bucky struggles with remembering the good moments of his life that Steve promises are there, Steve struggles with his desire to keep his past private while still trying to save the world by any means necessary, and everyone tries to struggle with what they're supposed to do with the mess HYDRA has made of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Drowned Ceremony of Innocence, Part One

**Author's Note:**

> I'll start things off with a pre-emptive apology: sorry for the erratic updates to this fic! I know a lot of you have been looking forward to the continuation of this (and thank you so much for all of your comments and support!), so I didn't want to sit on what I've completed any longer. However this sequel has been very uncooperative. Nothing is getting written in order, and stuff that I think is finished is constantly getting rewritten to better fit into the story arc, so it is going to be very slow going. I was really hoping I'd be moving at a faster pace by now, but I'm starting to think it may not ever happen because I keep running into the most ridiculous roadblocks (I learned about US congress for this story! That is super boring! And I am not even American! And then at the end I just went "Haha fictional superhero universe! I'm gonna make up my own rules for what Congress can and can't do!" And then I cried a little. But I digress...)
> 
> MY POINT IS the updates aren't going to be very consistent and they will likely be slow.
> 
> My other point is my beta [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness) is SO AWESOME. Like holy shit. She fixes my sentences when they don't make sense. She politely and kindly points out gaping plot points that I spent so much time solidifying in my mind I forgot to actually add them into the story. She is perfect, basically.
> 
> That is all.

 

 

 

 

He thinks he’s blind for a minute when he opens his eyes. Darkness surrounds him, and the beeping of machines crowds out everything else in his mind. Steve forces himself to calm down, and after a moment his eyes adjust to the hospital room around him. As the panic recedes, the noises become less overwhelming, and he’s suddenly aware of a person breathing raggedly somewhere just out of his line of vision, back in the furthest corner of the room. He doesn’t need to guess who it is.

 

“Bucky?” Steve asks. The breathing stops abruptly.

 

“I know you’re there, Buck,” Steve says, swallowing hard, trying to coax some moisture into his parched throat. “It’s okay. Are you hurt? Has anyone checked to see if you’re hurt?”

 

There’s more silence, long and weighted, dragging out until Steve wants to squirm. Finally he says,

 

“If you’re nodding or shaking your head I need you to knock it off, or at least stand somewhere I can see you, buddy. The serum doesn’t make me a mind reader.”

 

There’s another long pause before Bucky _finally_ says, uncertainly,

 

“The serum makes you taller.”

 

The voice is raspy, too, like it hasn’t been seeing much use for the last several years, and Steve guesses it probably hasn’t. Weapons kill people, they don’t need to talk.

 

“Yeah, it does,” Steve says, ignoring how the words hurt his throat. “It does a lot of things. I probably won’t even be in here that long. I don’t get sick like I used to, remember?”

 

“Remember hurting you,” Bucky says, voice stronger now, but the notes of distress are creeping back into his breathing. “Don’t know why, I just –“

 

“Hey, hey,” Steve says, gently. He reaches his hand back towards Bucky’s general direction, seeking to grasp onto something – Bucky’s arm or shoulder maybe, but the distressed whimper from the corner makes him pull his hand back almost immediately.

 

“I’m going to be okay,” he tries instead. “That wasn’t your fault, okay? That was you trying to fight your way out. You did what you had to do, and that was good. You still with me?”

 

There isn’t an answer, but the breathing slows a little, so Steve goes with it.

 

“Good,” he says. “Now, are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?”

 

The breathing becomes shallow again so quickly Steve has to wonder if he’d imagined it getting better in the first place.

 

“No doctors?” He guesses.

 

When more silence is his only answer, he sighs.

 

“Really need you to use words with me, Bucky.”

 

There’s another long pause, and Steve’s body has just about had enough of being conscious, so he’s almost drifted off again when a quiet voice says,

 

“No doctors.”

 

“Why not?” Steve manages to ask.

 

When nothing but quiet answers him, he follows a hunch and mumbles,

 

“You’re allowed to talk, Bucky. If you want to talk, I want to hear you.”

 

He thinks he hears Bucky shuffle forward slightly and almost thinks he sees an aborted movement towards him out of the corner of his eye, like Bucky had been reaching forward to grab Steve’s bed before making himself stop.

 

“Don’t want to get fixed,” says the small, hoarse voice beside him. “Can’t forget again.”

 

“Bucky,” Steve says, not even certain his words are making sense anymore, they’re so slurred together. “No one’s ever going to make you forget me again. I won’t let it happen.”

 

He thinks he might hear the breathing change again, and for half a second he thinks he can even see Bucky’s silhouette as it edges closer to the bed, but he’s pulled under by sleep before he really has a chance to process anything.

 

***

 

Steve is still in the hospital when he wakes up a second time, to the dulcet tones of Sam whining.

 

“Aw, come on! It’s been a long-ass 48 hours – I almost fell onto helicopter blades, man! Just – just, dammit!”

 

Steve doesn’t really know what to expect when he opens his eyes, but it’s certainly not Sam in the doorway trying to peer around the large dishevelled frame of Bucky blocking the door. Steve can’t see Bucky’s face, but he knows he’s got to be glaring daggers at Sam right now, with his arms crossed as he silently blocks every attempt from the other man to get past him.

 

“Sam,” he chokes out. “If you keep testing him he’s going to shoot you.”

 

“Steve!”

 

Steve catches a glimpse of Sam grinning at him before Bucky shifts again to block his view.

 

“No one’s going to shoot me,” Sam reassures, calling into the room. “Your friend here was happy enough to let the doctors and EMTs work on you, even though he insisted on lurking threateningly in the shadows the whole time. You just need to put in a good word for me.”

 

“Bucky,” Steve says, gently. “Sam’s okay. You can let him in. I promise you can trust him.”

 

Bucky twitches when he hears his name, like he’s not used to being spoken to. He’s obviously not happy about Sam being there, but he still backs slowly away from the door once he’s processed Steve’s words. He’s back to lurking in the darkest corner of the room by the time Sam takes the chair by the bed and hands Steve a glass of much-needed water.

 

“Is everyone alright?” Steve asks once Sam is comfortably settled in and Bucky is checking all the exits like it’s his sole purpose for existing. His behaviour is alarming enough that Steve would love to try and talk to him about it, try and find out what’s going on in his head, but amazingly Steve’s heart seems to have caught up with the 21st century. There are people here who he actually cares about.

 

“Well, your good friend Mr. Pierce tragically died in the disaster at the Triskelion,” Sam says cheerfully. “Hill took off shortly after we found you two – I think I heard her say something about updating her résumé.”

 

He pauses for a moment and Steve can practically see the hearts in his friend’s eyes, like one of those old Looney Tunes characters.

 

“God I hope she stays in the D.C. area.”

 

Sam trails off wistfully for a moment until Steve gently prods,

 

“Sam?”

 

“Right!” Sam says, giving his head a small shake. “I believe she also mentioned plans to lay flowers on Director Fury’s grave, who is sadly just as dead now as he was before the Triskelion attack.”

 

He looks Steve in the eye and solemnly intones,

 

“May he rest in peace.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes. He’s not sure if he’s ever seen someone have so much fun being covert before.

 

“Hill also wanted to make sure you knew your neighbour made it out okay. Apparently she was talking about tracking down Rumlow before she took off. No one’s seen him since the bridge.”

 

“Rumlow?” Bucky’s voice makes both of them jump. It’s not that either of them forgot he was there exactly, he’s too terrifying for that, but it’s safe to say that neither of them expected him to voluntarily join in the conversation either. He’s looking at both of them, cautiously, like he’s testing out the permission to speak that Steve gave him earlier.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, cautiously. “Do you remember him?”

 

Bucky is calm when he answers,

 

“I killed him.”

 

“Um,” Sam says, out of his depth and not afraid to show it. Steve can relate.

 

“When?” He finally manages. “ _Why_?”

 

Bucky isn’t the sort of person who shrugs anymore – too trained in practising economy of movement, but Steve swears he can hear that same sort of forced nonchalance in his answer.

 

“After the bridge. I knew my name, but no one would tell me who you were.”

 

“So you just killed him?” Sam asks. “Because he wouldn’t give you a name?”

 

“Killed all of them,” Bucky says, and he’s hunching in on himself, eyes darting around the room like he can sense something isn’t right. Like he thinks he might be in trouble, like this much attention focused on him can only mean he’s done something wrong, but he doesn’t know what and is starting to get worried about what the punishment might be. He looks scared again.

 

“Bucky?” Steve says, carefully. “It’s okay. Remember when I told you it was okay to talk to me? You can talk to Sam, too. We won’t get you in trouble.”

 

“They were going to put me back into the chair,” Bucky’s voice is quiet enough that Sam, who doesn’t have the serum to help him out, has to lean forward to hear. “Start over. I hate when they start over.”

 

“Because you forget?” Steve hedges, but the haunted look Bucky is sending them makes him think he’s not quite hit on the right answer.

 

He stares in silence for so long that Steve finally has to look away, so wrapped up in his own distress over Bucky’s fear and mistrust that even he almost misses the whispered,

 

“Because I remember.”

 

Steve desperately wants to ask what that means, but at the same time is terrified of the possibilities, and any further questions get caught in his throat.

 

Sam is the one who finally gives in and speaks up first.

 

“I have no idea what kinds of chairs _you’ve_ been sitting in, but at my house we’ve only got La-Z Boys.”

 

“Your house,” Bucky echoes, obviously confused.

 

Sam falters.

 

“Well, I don’t actually know where they’re going to put you up. Natasha says that normally they’d take you to a secure SHIELD facility until you’re properly assessed.”

 

“Because I can’t be trusted,” Bucky says, like he’s stating a fact instead of asking a question.

 

Sam shrugs a little helplessly.

 

“Well, yeah. Natasha says it’s not personal; the same thing happened to her when she first joined.”

 

“Except now – even if it hadn’t been broken up into a hundred pieces – we know that SHIELD is one of the major reasons any of this happened to Bucky in the first place,” Steve says, and Sam nods in agreement.

 

“Right. So now she’s running around making alternate arrangements. Heard her mention New York at one point.”

 

At first Steve is confused as to why she wants to send them back to Brooklyn before he realizes.

 

“Stark.”

 

Sam just shrugs.

 

“Maybe. She didn’t say.”

 

“She should come talk to me about it,” Steve says, disapprovingly. “He’s not going anywhere without me.”

 

Sam looks somewhat uncomfortable before he finally says,

 

“Okay, you do _not_ tell her I told you this, but I wouldn’t hold your breath for a visit. Not with the current company you’re choosing to keep.”

 

“What did I do to her?” Bucky asks, and Steve’s own flinch is mirrored in Sam.

 

Bucky still sounds quite detached when he speaks about anything that doesn’t directly pertain to Steve, like someone who hasn’t fully woken up from an especially vivid dream. Even so, it’s impossible to miss the subtle note of dismay that accompanies his words.

 

“You didshoot her once,” Steve says. “But as a general rule, I don’t think Natasha holds grudges about that sort of thing.”

 

“She really likes you,” Sam says, firmly. “I’m pretty sure she’s worried that _you_ may not like _her_.”

 

“If I shot her it probably wasn’t personal,” Bucky offers, uncertainly, like he’s not sure he’s telling the truth.

 

“It wasn’t,” Steve promises.

 

He doesn’t say that that’s the whole problem. That Natasha is scared there _won’t_ be any personal history between them left. That the memories she’s clung to so tightly over the years may be gone forever in Bucky. There are some things that Natasha will just have to explain herself.

 

***

 

Bucky refuses to leave Steve’s side, but even this pale imitation of loyalty isn’t enough to mask the fact that Steve is still more “the man on the bridge” to him than he is Steve Rogers. He knows Steve’s name – knows that he trusts Steve – but apart from a few scattered impressions that’s really all he seems to have. At first, anyhow.

 

Apart from Sam’s constant checking in, the two men are more or less left to their own devices that first day. Whenever they are free from awestruck doctors and nurses, excited by Steve’s miraculous recovery, Steve is finding _he’s_ amazed at how quickly Bucky is digging up old memories. It shouldn’t be possible, not when he’s been having every ounce of himself systematically taken away for decades. Steve absently wonders if it’s the super serum allowing neural pathways to regenerate themselves that much faster than could be possible in a regular person.

 

It’s not a perfect process. Bucky gets mixed up sometimes, asking Steve about especially brutal murders like he thinks Steve was there giving the orders – like Steve would ever tell him to kill a child or any other civilian. Steve tries not to take it personally, just calmly reaffirms that Steve hasn’t seen him since the Second World War and that they only ever hurt people who were trying to hurt others.

 

Bucky never quite looks like he believes Steve, and at first Steve thinks it must be mistrust, that Bucky can’t reconcile himself to the idea of a person in charge being invested in the best interests of others. Then he off-handedly mentions the first Nazi he ever killed, in excruciating detail:

 

“Couldn’t have been more than 18 – blond hair and blue eyes. Think he reminded me of you, ‘cept he was crying, and pissing himself a little. I don’t think you ever would have done that. He didn’t want to fight, but you always did, right? I couldn’t sleep for months after. Missed you so bad and never wanted to see you again at the same time.”

 

His voice is so calm when he says it Steve wants to be sick. Bucky never told him that. Never mentioned it, never even hinted that it had happened.

 

“Jesus,” he finally manages after several long moments. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

 

Bucky looks at him a little strangely, which is in and of itself unusual – Bucky doesn’t seem fond of eye contact anymore.

 

“Why?” He asks. “Wasn’t he an enemy? That’s what’s supposed to happen, isn’t it?”

 

“I guess,” Steve falters, before stopping and starting again. “Well, no. Not really. He was an enemy, but he was still a real person. In a perfect world you both would be happy and neither of you would ever find a reason to hurt anyone. No one should be surrounded by pain, whether they’re the ones causing it or the ones getting hurt.”

 

Bucky is still staring at him, like Steve is no longer speaking a language he can understand, so Steve tries again,

 

“It’s like with us,” he says. “When life was knocking us around, we were always fighting to get to a place where we could be happy, weren’t we? The goal was always to get the good things to outweigh the bad things. That’s all anyone should want. It’s what everyone deserves.”

 

Bucky just shakes his head, slowly, finally lowering his gaze to his metal hand as it clenches and unclenches into a fist.

 

“I don’t remember the good things,” he mutters.

 

Steve is ready to chide him just a little, to tell Bucky that even though their lives were hard, there were still plenty of bright spots, but then he realizes that Bucky hasn’t mentioned a single one of those happy moments. Maybe Bucky really can’tremember the positives – because of his own serum being a warped copy of the original, or because his bad memories are just thatoverpowering, Steve doesn’t know. But he _does_ know he’s not about to let Bucky go on thinking that his entire existence has been hell from start to finish. If it’s at all possible to give any of the brightness back to Bucky, he is going to do it.

 

So he talks about the Howling Commandos and nights in London and Paris – about the strange exhilaration they’d felt at finally seeing the world together, even if it had to happen under such horrible circumstances. He talks about Peggy and Howard, shouting at each other in R & D like an old married couple and the looks of horror that had been on their faces when Bucky’d pointed it out to them.

 

A lot of it doesn’t resonate with Bucky – he doesn’t remember Howard at all, but occasionally pieces come back to him. He cautiously asks about a black American and a white Frenchman getting run out of a brothel for starting a brawl, laughing and covered in blood. He asks about the time Peggy punched him in the arm when he tried to tease her about his “fiancée.”

 

“I didn’t have a fiancée, did I?” He asks.

 

“Not really,” Steve says, trying not to panic.

 

Bucky’s so mixed over right now, Steve isn’t sure he knows what they were to each other, or if he’s even begun to guess. Steve can’t imagine how he’ll ever manage to explain it, but then Bucky mutters,

 

“I don’t remember her. I only remember wanting to be with you.”

 

He sounds sad.

 

“Did I make that up?”

 

“No, Buck,” Steve says, softly.

 

He goes to take Bucky’s hand but the other man still flinches away, and Steve lets it be. Bucky stares at Steve longingly, like he’s desperate for that contact, but something in him can’t accept it yet, and Steve gets it. He can be patient.

 

“We were in love,” he says instead, and maybe it’s not so hard to explain after all. “But there were a lot of people who would have had a real problem with it. Well, there probably _still_ are, but back then it could have landed us in jail. Peggy and her girl had the same problem, so for a while we talked about pretending – hiding the real relationships in plain sight, I guess.”

 

Bucky nods uncertainly, like he tends to after Steve’s given him context for a memory. He looks uncomfortable with the information, like he’s been given unbridled access to a stranger’s home, but like he’s hungry for more all the same.

 

“I can’t remember what Peggy’s girl looked like,” he says after another long pause.

 

“Well you only met her in person once,” Steve offers. “I was the one they talked to about it. Back in those days you couldn’t just run off and get to know someone, but you still used to tease Peggy a lot.”

 

“And then she punched me,” Bucky says, looking at Steve to clarify.

 

“Barely a tap,” Steve says, smiling.

 

Bucky nods, then:

 

“ _You_ punched a lot harder than she did, when you were little. Right? You were angry, too. I think it hurt.”

 

Steve is absolutely gutted and it obviously shows on his face because Bucky starts backtracking almost immediately, regressing into that halting, tortured speech he’d used before Steve convinced him it was alright to say what he thought.

 

“Sorry. Sorry. Don’t – I didn’t want. My fault, it’s fine.”

 

“Bucky, no,” Steve says, dragging a hand over his face. “Don’t ever feel bad about asking to know more. I’m just sad that’s something you’re remembering at all.”

 

“I’ll stop,” Bucky volunteers, like it’s even an option.

 

Part of Steve actually wants to try to take him up on the offer – wants to spare Bucky the hurt even more than he wants to spare himself from having to talk about it. Back when it happened he could barely even explain himself to Rich and Cal, and he _never_ talked about it again to Bucky. They were both too busy trying to pretend it hadn’t been real. Only now what Bucky needs more than anything is to be able to tell the difference between reality and lies. He needs to hold onto something. Even when it seems like the only things he can grasp are the things that come hand-in-hand with pain.

 

“It’s good that you remembered, Bucky,” he says. “It’s something that happened, and every bit you get back is going to help put you back together.”

 

Bucky nods, but Steve can see the question still there in his eyes, so he sighs a little and adds,

 

“It was the only time I’d ever hit you. We’d just – I don’t know what you’ve got back yet, but we’d run away from reform school.”

 

Steve glances nervously at the door, hoping a nurse isn’t about to wander in. Bucky silently gets up and closes it. Even like this, sometimes it feels like he can read Steve’s mind. He sits on the bed closer to Steve when he comes back, although he still doesn’t touch. Steve misses the old intimacy like air.

 

“It was a bad school, Buck. They hurt a lot of the kids who’d been sent there – killed at least one of them. They almost killed me, too. But you saved me first. And we ran.”

 

Bucky shifts uncomfortably.

 

“So… you hit me because I ran? I went off-mission?”

 

“You didn’t go off-mission,” Steve corrects. “You left, and it was good that you did. I hit you because… They hurt me really bad. I guess it screwed up my head some, but I didn’t want to face how badly it got to me. I was scared that I’d never be okay again and I felt guilty that I lived but that the other student didn’t. You were trying to make me face that. I panicked.”

 

Bucky nods as though Steve’s confused jumble of words made any sense. After a few more minutes of silence he says,

 

“They whipped your back raw?”

 

Steve nods.

 

“It was a mess of ugly scars before they gave me the serum.”

 

Another pause. Then,

 

“Did they make you fuck them? Even though you were so little?”

 

 The tactlessness of it leaves Steve slightly breathless but then, there’s a lot about Bucky that’s rough around the edges right now. Feral.

 

“Yeah,” he finally says, and then because something in Bucky’s wording isn’t sitting right, he adds,

 

“They raped me.”

 

Just so he knows that Bucky hasn’t forgotten that word, so he knows that this is a world where people aren’t supposed to be forced to do things against their will. Bucky’s brow is creasing in concentration, like he’s trying hard to remember something else.

 

“That school. What was it – “

 

He trails off again, his fragmented mind obviously sending him off on another detour as he suddenly asks,

 

“The one who died – did she have red hair?”

 

Steve sucks in a painful breath at that, but he sticks to his decision to leave any explanations about Natasha to Natasha, or at least not to say anything until he talks to her about it first.

 

“It was a boy’s school,” is all he says. “The little boy was an Indian. Or Native American. I think that’s supposed to be a better term now.”

 

The silence is so long Steve thinks the conversation has ended, and he’s just about to try to remind Bucky about the Bowers when Bucky bursts out,

 

“I thought he said he was Penobscot.”

 

Steve lets out a breathless laugh.

 

“That’s right,” he says. “You’re absolutely right. See? It’s starting to come back.”

 

He stops short of saying it’s good. For all Bucky’s confused right now, Steve’s fairly certain he still knows a lie when he hears it.

 

***

 

Natasha finally makes an appearance almost 24 hours later, shortly after Steve has been allowed to get out of bed for the first time. Steve suspects the timing is intentional – as long as she can wait before Steve becomes mobile enough to try and offer them some privacy. She is calm and collected when she walks in, like she hasn’t been noticeably absent. Bucky eyes the hands that she keeps hidden behind her back with open suspicion. Natasha’s voice never waivers when she asks Steve how he’s feeling. She doesn’t look at Bucky.

 

“I’m feeling much better,” Steve tells her, playing along. “Have you met my friend Bucky?”

 

She sends him a murderous look before turning slightly towards Bucky’s corner.

 

“Hello James,” she says and this time she can’t quite hide the shake in her voice when she lets herself say his name. Steve can’t fathom having someone in your life so important to you but never once being able to call that person by their name.

 

Bucky usually looks bewildered at best when someone talks to him directly. His eyes become glassy and he won’t meet anyone’s gaze. Sam has to work hard to coax answers out of him, and Bucky always directs his responses to Steve and Steve alone, like he’s easing back into feeling human around him but prefers to be the weapon to everyone else. Aside from Sam, no one is in a hurry to correct this, the medical staff obviously unused to dealing with traumatized assassins.

 

Bucky seems to pick up on the fact that this interaction is different than the others, though. He holds himself as tensely as ever but instead of pouring all his available energy into looking like an automaton, he looks at her warily, like he wants to run again but doesn’t know why.

 

“You’re the Black Widow,” he says. It’s not a question.

 

“Yes,” Natasha says. She’s holding a book behind her back, away from Bucky’s line of vision, and she keeps worrying at the cover – curling it up and sliding the spine along her fingers. Steve has never seen her so restless before. She’s practically fidgeting.

 

“They said I shot you once,” Bucky says, guardedly. “I might remember.”

 

“We both had our missions,” Natasha says. The voice is the same but the fidgeting has stopped. “They happened to be at cross purposes. These things happen.”

 

“You trying to forgive me?” Bucky says, and suddenly he sounds angry. “I wasn’t asking for it.”

 

Natasha looks a little stung by that but she rallies quickly.

 

“Maybe you should be,” she snaps.

 

“You just said it wasn’t about you,” Bucky shoots back, edging closer to Steve, like he wants to grab him and run. “What do I need forgiveness for?”

 

“Maybe we should all calm down,” Steve says, a little faintly, before Bucky rounds on him as he points an accusing finger at Natasha,

 

“She’s a Black Widow, Steve,” he says, more vocal than ever in his disgust. “She’s a trained killer, and I know that training. That training was based on _me_. Why is she allowed in here? Why would you trust someone like that?”

 

“He trusts _you_ ,” Natasha says, and Steve doesn’t blame her for the satisfaction that flashes across her features when Bucky flinches, but it still doesn’t quite mask her disappointment. She had wanted Bucky to recognize _her_ , not her fighting style.

 

“He shouldn’t trust me, either,” Bucky says, and Steve wants to tell him not to be so hard on himself, but then Natasha _throws the book_ right at Bucky’s head. The book glances off the wall behind him, and Steve knows she missed on purpose, but she’s still shaking when she says,

 

“ _You_ have never been untrustworthy. Not when it was really you. You shouldn’t be so ready to believe everyone who ever got stuck on the wrong side is nothing more than a monster.”

 

“They made men and women animals. They stole their names and trained them to attack on command,” Bucky comments. “Sounds like monsters to me.”

 

“Then the monsters aren’t the ones on the leash,” Natasha says firmly, visibly calming now that Bucky is looking less hostile. “And none of us are nameless. Not knowing your name and not having one aren’t the same thing.”

 

“Do you know your name?” He asks her, still cautious, staring at her hair like there’s something about it that bothers him.

 

“I make my own names,” Natasha says, smiling a little now.

 

“What’s your name right now?”

 

“Natasha,” she says. “Romanoff.”

 

Steve only realises how many emotions Bucky has been starting to let rise to the surface again when he sees all of them lock back down in a split second. There’s another long pause and when it’s finally broken this time it’s Bucky’s voice that sounds thick with emotion.

 

“I remember shooting through you to get to him and thinking I must have done something wrong. That you were my punishment. I couldn’t remember why. I think things made more sense when they let me stay awake longer, but they stopped doing that. I think that was a punishment, too.”

 

He’s staring at his feet and not at her, but he still backs up when she slowly starts to edge closer.

 

“You know,” she says, quietly, “you were the only family I ever had.”

 

Bucky grimaces.

 

“Sounds like an awful life,” he mutters.

 

“It was,” Natasha says. “And it got so much worse after they took you away.”

 

Bucky finally looks up at her again, confusion on his face.

 

“Did I try to steal you?”

 

Natasha chuckles.

 

“You did,” she says. “It didn’t work, but it was a very, _very_ long time before I met anyone else who thought I was worth fighting for. Thank you.”

 

They’re shoulder to shoulder now, almost touching, and Bucky can’t seem to stop glancing down to look at how their bodies line up.

 

“You got so big,” he finally says, a little helplessly. “Everyone gets so big.”

 

“I grew up,” Natasha says, and Steve can’t take it anymore.

 

“Aren’t you going to hug or something?”

 

Bucky looks a little panicked, and Steve instantly feels bad, because, right, touching. Natasha only rolls her eyes and takes out her phone to text someone. A few more minutes of halting conversation later and Sam appears in the doorway, uncertainly pushing a wheelchair.

 

“What’s going on?” Steve asks.

 

“You’re going stir crazy,” Natasha says before Sam has a chance to speak, walking over to where her book landed and picking it up calmly. “It’ll be nice for you to get some fresh air.”

 

“Are you kicking me out of my own hospital room?” Steve asks, a little incredulously, his theories about her timing going up in smoke.

 

“Just go with it, Cap,” Sam suggests as he deftly starts to manoeuver Steve into the chair – well, as deftly as anyone can manoeuver the small mountain that is Steve.

 

He shoots Natasha a desperate look and she has the decency to look a little sheepish, but what really convinces Steve to go is the stricken look on Bucky’s face. He’s staring at the book in Natasha’s hands like he wants to cry, and when he finally looks up at Steve it takes his breath away. It’s as though Bucky’s looking right through him, like he’s remembering something that Steve was no part of. For the first time since he’s gotten Bucky back, Steve isn’t the only thing there to ground him. He’s stopped being the only real thing in Bucky’s world. Steve tries to remind himself that that’s a good thing as he’s wheeled away.

 

***

 

Steve has a hard time leaving Bucky alone at first. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Natasha, or even that he doesn’t trust Bucky. It’s just hard, having to spend any time away from the one person he’s missed most now that he’s unexpectedly gotten him back. It doesn’t help that the hospital is as boring and drab and uninspiring as all hospitals are, and aside from pulling up a chair and watching the misfortunes of others, there really aren’t any distractions.

 

Fortunately Sam is a man after Steve’s own heart, who always has to be doing something, and he happily goes along with keeping Steve occupied. The fact that he’s obviously been filled in about Natasha’s complete history with Bucky helps, too, and he refuses to let Steve even entertain the idea of interrupting anything. Before too long they’ve found a courtyard and not long after _that_ , Steve is delighted to find out that Sam has a nearly uncanny ability to identify songbirds.

 

“Shut up, man,” Sam mutters self-consciously after Steve bursts out into delighted laughter when Sam obligingly tells him they were just looking at a Purple Martin. “Just because you grew up surrounded by pigeons and newsies doesn’t mean the rest of America didn’t get out and experience nature.”

 

“But the _wings_ ,” Steve snickers. “Your _codename_ , Sam. It’s so well-coordinated. Tell me the truth, you’re really made up out of feathers underneath those clothes, aren’t you?”

 

“Absolutely,” Sam says, only a little grumpily. “This pretty face is mysecret identity, Steve.  I am all birds. Except for bald eagles, because some patriotic asshole from the 40s called dibs on them.”

 

“I seem to have hit a nerve,” Steve says, not feeling sorry at all.                   

 

“It’s just not that funny,” Sam insists. “I was a hyper-active kid and my grandma bought me a book one year at Christmas, that’s _all_.”

 

“I believe you,” Steve placates.

 

Something squawks behind him.

 

“Quick!” he says leaning forward in the chair. “What was that?”

 

“A magpie,” Sam says, sublimely unimpressed. “Just like it was the last three times you asked. You know, this ability of mine really isn’t as impressive as the fact that you seem to have never seen a real fucking bird in your life, Steve.”

 

Before Steve can defend his honour and start talking about the birds he saw in Europe, someone clears their throat behind him, and he turns around to see Natasha there, smirking at them.

 

“Well, it’s good to know I wasn’t missing anything important,” she says.

 

“Where’s Bucky?” Steve asks. “How did it go after I left?”

 

“He’s still in your room,” she says. “We’ll need to get you back there before he panics and decides to come looking for you, but he’s okay for a couple minutes.”

 

“And it went okay?” Steve asks, not willing to let the second question drop.

 

Natasha looks a little uncomfortable, but she says,

 

“It went awkwardly, but I think it might be okay, one day.”

 

“Glad to hear it,” Steve says, as Sam gamely starts to push him back inside.

 

“I was looking at your chart before I left,” Natasha says, not even pretending to feel bad about the invasion of privacy. “It looks like you’ll be out soon.”

 

“Looks like,” Steve agrees.

 

“They’re calling me to testify before congress,” she says, like she’s talking about the weather. “Since it doesn’t seem like you’ll be up to it any time soon. They want more information about the Triskelion.”

 

“About the Triskelion?” Steve asks. “Or about Bucky?”

 

“Both,” Natasha admits. “Don’t worry. I can handle them. I haven’t tracked down Tony yet though. And I doubt I’ll have time to try while I’m busy placating politicians.”

 

“I’ll look for him,” Steve promises.

 

“I know you will,” Natasha says, leaning over to kiss the top of his head as they reach the door to his room. “You’re very reliable.”

 

Natasha leaves without going back to see Bucky, but Bucky doesn’t look like he’s in the mood to chat when they go back inside, anyhow. He’s sitting huddled on the end of Steve’s bed, looking at the book Natasha was carrying earlier. Aside from a quick glance up to make sure he trusts the people coming into the room, he makes no move to get up, even when Sam complains loudly in his direction about the lack of help as he struggles to get Steve settled again.

 

“I gave this to her,” he says, finally. “When she was a girl.”

 

“ _That_ book?” Sam asks, suspiciously looking at the brand new book in Bucky’s hands.

 

“Not _this_ book,” Bucky says, giving Sam a long-suffering look that is more the old him than anything else Steve has seen since getting him back. “The story.”

 

Steve glances at the title.

 

“ _The Wizard of Oz_?” He says. “You used to read that to me when we were kids and I was sick. Because I told you once that my mom used to do it before she died.”

 

Bucky blinks at him, like this is more than he remembered, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

 

“The Red Room didn’t encourage childlike behaviour in the girls,” he says instead. “But sometimes things would sneak in: toys or games – old pieces of disguises. There was a book all the girls seemed to have read: _Волшебник Изумрудного Города_. It was a different version of the same story. I wanted to show her where it came from.”

 

“That’s really nice, Bucky,” Steve says, smiling.

 

Bucky’s face twists up.

 

“She was holding it when they found us,” he says, setting the book on the bed and turning away from it.

 

It’s quiet a moment before Sam says,

 

“Personally, I always thought Oz was overrated. Glad both you and Dorothy decided to join us back in Kansas, Toto.”

 

Steve splutters for a minute, because he’s _really_ not sure if this is the appropriate time for that sort of comment, but of course he’s not giving Sam and his ability to read people enough credit. Bucky refuses to make eye contact, but the corner of his mouth tips up just slightly and he awkwardly offers,

 

“Think I might be a better Scarecrow. Or Tin Man.”

 

Steve knows he’s grinning like an idiot, but he doesn’t care.


	2. The Drowned Ceremony of Innocence, Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the Avengers appearances and individual franchise cameos begin! This is officially the last update I think you can reasonably expect for at least a month. You'll be pleased to hear that I have at least two more chapters worth of content written! But less pleased to hear that absolutely none of it is in order and is full of notes like [WHERE THE HELL IS THIS EVEN SUPPOSED TO GO] and [UGH. DO TEN HOURS OF RESEARCH AND TRY TO FIX THIS YOU ARE A HACK AND A FOOL] (I am very mean to myself when I critique my first drafts). SO ANYHOW. I promise I'm working steadily on the rest of it, but I just don't know how long it will take for it all to be cohesive and readable.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness). Any mistakes are there because I added a shameless amount after she got her hands on the (apparently not) final draft.

 

 

 

 

Steve wakes up the first night away from the hospital, bunked down in Sam’s spare bedroom, flinching away from a cracking noise in his right ear. He recognizes the body looming over his and wonders if being woken up in the middle of the night by a vaguely unhinged assassin and his poor social skills is going to be a regular feature in his life now, when he suddenly realizes what is happening and why.

 

“Bucky,” he says, very gently taking Bucky’s hand and pulling it away before he can snap his fingers again, pretending he doesn’t feel the recoil and the way it travels up Bucky’s entire body. “It’s okay. I can hear with it now. The serum changed me, remember?”

 

“But it used to be different, right?” Bucky says, and he sounds desperate. Steve thinks he can make out tears building up in Bucky’s eyes in the faint light. “You used to be deaf?”

 

“More or less in the one ear,” Steve says, nodding seriously.

 

“And it was because of what they did?” Bucky’s voice is ragged when he asks and it hurts Steve to hear him like this.

 

“It was the teachers,” he confirms, before adding. “It’s okay now, Bucky. You get that, right? Those men are long gone by now. The last one must have been done in by old age years ago. Remember the man whose grave you went to? He was one of them, remember?”

 

Bucky actually does burst into tears at that and Steve is stunned into silence. Even beaten down and broken, Bucky never was one to let his fear come to the surface like this. He was always so careful to control his feelings, to be strong enough to deal with Steve’s problems. The vague sick fear he felt back at Stoller’s gravesite is coming back in full force as he tentatively rubs the back of Bucky’s hand.

 

He’s about to ask what’s wrong when Bucky pulls away and stands a little, pacing.

 

“I remember,” he says. “I remember being so scared, and so mad, and your _ear._ There was blood everywhere, and you didn’t know where you were, and I thought you were dying and it felt like _I_ was dying.”

 

He stops pacing and looks at Steve full on.

 

“I’d see a flash of something and I’d feel it all over again and it was like there was someone in my head screaming.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Steve asks, feeling sicker than ever.

 

“We said we’d make them pay, didn’t we?” Bucky asks, frantically. “Did we ever say that?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says slowly. “Overseas we said it a lot. Didn’t talk about it much in Brooklyn, but in Europe I guess we mostly got sick of seeing people beat up the little guy. Wanted to stop it at home, too.”

 

“What were we gonna do?” Bucky asks.

 

“I don’t think we ever got that far,” Steve admits. “We just knew we didn’t want them to get away with it.”

 

“Did we want to kill them?” Bucky asks, and Steve can’t decide if he sounds hopeful or terrified.

 

“Honestly, I did,” Steve says. “A little. But mostly we talked about stopping them. If I just killed the ones who did it, it wouldn’t have helped other kids from getting hurt by the next guy. The only way to stop a system is to replace the system.”

 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Bucky says, almost like he hasn’t heard half of what Steve just said. “Who _they made me_ didn’t know what else to do to stop the screaming.”

 

He looks at Steve and even in the near darkness his face is deathly pale, with a horror in his eyes that makes Steve want to throw up.

 

“What did I do?” Bucky whispers.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve manages. “Shit, Bucky, I don’t know, but it’s going to be okay. Okay? None of this is your fault.”

 

Bucky makes a move like he’s about to leave in disgust, but Steve impulsively grabs him and pulls him close, wrapping him up in a crushing hug.

 

At first Bucky stays rigid, feeling for all the world like he’s going to either become a real robot, or like he’s going to start fighting back and try to kill Steve again. But then he goes completely limp and lets himself melt onto the bed, partially leaning on Steve. Steve feels the tears fall on his shoulder and can hear Bucky muttering,

 

“Shit, Steve, what did I _do_? What did they turn me into?”

 

Steve wants to tell him that _Bucky_ didn’t do anything, that things were done _to_ him and not the other way around. But he’s fully aware of how isolating it is to hear someone talk like that when you don’t believe it.

 

_It’s not your fault that they beat him to death._

_There’s nothing you can do to help the war effort on the front lines._

_There was nothing you could have done to save him before he fell, son._

_You aren’t the reason they died_.

 

“Try not to think about it,” he says, hating himself a little. “You’re not there anymore.”

 

“I can’t stop,” Bucky grits out. “This is why they’d turn me off. This is why they’d start over in the chair. But it doesn’t work. Forgetting makes it worse.”

 

“Why?” Steve asks, a little desperately. If he could guarantee that Bucky could stop remembering all the bad things he’s done and been through and was made to do, he’s ashamed to say he’d make it happen in a heartbeat. He’s just so tired of fighting to get Bucky back, so tired of seeing Bucky in pain. He’s so scared of losing everything.

 

He knows he should be helping Bucky make sense of it – his actions as HYDRA’s pawn, and the overwhelming guilt that seems to have gotten tangled up with the memories of their childhood. But he’s _scared_. Bucky is coming to him for help in finding answers and Steve doesn’t want any part of it. He doesn’t _want_ Bucky to find out he murdered Howard Stark, and he definitely doesn’t want Bucky to remember events so bad they made the little piece of him that was still awake inside the Soldier start screaming.

 

He knows it’s wrong, and that Captain America made his name by taking a stand for truth and doing the right thing, no matter how hard. Hell, even before he became the Captain, that was practically Steve’s entire life philosophy, but this is about Bucky. If helping Bucky means hurting Bucky, Steve doesn’t think he’s strong enough to do that.

 

“Bucky why?” He asks again. “Why don’t you let yourself think about the good things the way you think about the bad things?”

 

“Because it’s right behind me,” Bucky says. His head doesn’t move from where it’s buried in Steve’s shoulder, but his entire body has begun to shake, just slightly.

 

“What’s behind you?”

 

“I think I used to be afraid of the dark,” Bucky says, and if he didn’t still sound so broken, Steve would think he’s changing the subject. “I was afraid of that teacher, because he never did anything when people were watching. Sometimes I’d dream about him. Even on the lab table in that base. He’d be in the far corner, waiting. And then the lights went out and I couldn’t see him anymore. When they came back on, he’d always gotten a little closer.”

 

“Forgetting is like turning out the lights,” Steve says, suddenly realizing.

 

“Forgetting just makes remembering worse,” Bucky says. “Feels closer when it comes back. I can’t keep letting it get behind me like this. I need to see.”

 

***

 

They stay with Sam for a while, until Steve is able to track down Tony, and it’s surprising to Steve how hard it is to find a man who seems to live in the public eye. Sam thankfully is amazing about it, and doesn’t make any noise to rush them out, even though Steve wouldn’t blame him if he did. There’s nothing easy about opening your home to strangers, let alone to a twitchy spy who’s still coming to terms with the fact that all her secrets have been uploaded to the internet, a washed up piece of war memorabilia, and a man who has an alarming lack of faith in his ability to refrain from killing civilians. That doesn’t even address the fact that HYDRA is likely still invested in killing all of them. No matter what Sam says about not minding, there’s no getting around the fact that they are the worst house guests of all time.

 

Technically, Steve supposes he could just pack up and take everyone to New York without Tony’s go ahead – after all, Tony himself offered all the Avengers a standing invitation to move into Stark Tower any time they wanted. Still, Steve just can’t move forward until he _knows_ Tony is fine with Bucky. All of HYDRA’s secrets are in public hands now, including the information about who really killed the Starks.

 

Steve would never blame Bucky for what happened – he’s not even sure if Bucky’s remembered it yet – but he can’t take him to Tony’s unannounced, either. So they stay at Sam’s and take shifts keeping guard until, on Natasha’s last day testifying in front of Congress, Tony arrives – unannounced – at the front door.

 

“Tony Stark,” he says as he shoves past Sam. “Don’t worry, it’s cool if you let me in. I’m kind of a big deal.”

 

“I know who you are,” Sam grouses as he does his usual check up and down the street for suspicious activity before closing the door. “I wouldn’t have bought those damn pyjamas if I didn’t.”

 

Tony perks up a little at that.

 

“They make Iron Man pyjamas? Really?”

 

Steve can see the man mentally making a note to buy 6 pairs.

 

“Tony,” he points out. “You probably signed off on them.”

 

Tony shrugs before focusing on Steve.

 

“Hey buddy!” he says, punching Steve in the arm slightly harder than is necessary. “Long time no see.”

 

“Well we’ve both been keeping pretty busy, from what I hear. Invite any other terrorists over to your house lately?”

 

Tony gives him a hard look.

 

“No,” he says, flatly. “In fact, I’m trying to limit how often I do that. Too much of a good thing and whatnot. I get the feeling that America’s Golden Boy is gearing up to try and lead me astray though.”

 

“He’s not a terrorist,” Steve says, even as his shoulders slump slightly. “We need a safe place where he can stay, though – somewhere HYDRA can’t reach him and where he can be contained if he… panics.”

 

“Panics?” Tony repeats. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

 

“Tony –” Steve starts, but Tony talks over him. It would be infuriating if Steve couldn’t see the raw undercurrent of pain alongside all the brass and pageantry.

 

“Well Cap, I’m honoured that I made your shortlist. That’s what friends are for, right?”

 

“I tried to call you,” Steve says quietly and Tony snorts.

 

“No,” he says. “It’s probably better that this conversation happens in person.”

 

“You’ve seen the documents?” Steve asks, even though he already knows. “About your parents?”

 

The act stumbles a little and Tony looks haggard when he stares at his feet and mumbles,

 

“I wanna talk to him.”

 

“That might not be a good idea,” Sam cautions, elbowing his way back into the conversation. “We don’t know what exactly he remembers from the last several decades, or even from his life before that. We don’t really want to force him to remember killing one of his friends. No one’s sure how he’d react.”

 

“Well, what if _I_ want to chat about how he killed my _dad_?” Tony snaps, turning away from both of them in disgust only to be brought up short by Bucky himself, standing stock still in the hallway with Natasha at his side.

 

They eye each other warily for a moment before Bucky finally says,

 

“I killed your dad?”

 

He looks over Tony’s nervous, twitchy form for a minute before letting out a long unhappy breath.

 

“The weapons manufacturer,” he says. “And his wife. I don’t remember them from before, but I remember the mission. I never even saw them. I was ordered not to get close, so I just tampered with the brakes and they put me back under right after. I didn’t know who he was until a few days ago when I read about it on Sam’s computer.”

 

“Knowing how unstable your programming could be, I imagine they didn’t want to risk you making any sort of connection,” Natasha says, and Tony jumps a little, like he hadn’t noticed her next to Bucky.

 

“Would you have done it if you’d known?” Tony asks, and Bucky shrugs, looking trapped. He’s still so disconcerted whenever he talks to someone new, talking about something so awful to a stranger must be like torture to him.

 

“It was like – sometimes I saw what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop doing what they told me to. Not usually. I don’t – I don’t know if I’d have been able to stop it. I was never in control.”

 

“Yeah, well… condolences,” Tony says bitterly, and for someone who was determined to look his parents’ killer in the eye, he seems to be having a hard time doing it.

 

There’s a long pain-saturated pause and then Tony says in a voice that sounds dangerously close to breaking,

 

“None of the records give a reason why.”

 

“Why?” Bucky repeats, dumbly.

 

“Why them?” Tony demands, jaw twitching violently.

 

“Because those were my orders,” Bucky says, quietly. “I didn’t question them. I’m sorry…”

 

He hesitates before cautiously saying,

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name. Beyond the Stark, obviously.”

 

Tony looks a little taken aback by that – like he’s not used to people who don’t know him.

 

“Tony,” he finally says. Then,

 

“I don’t shake hands.”

 

Bucky nods, also looking away.

 

“I feel like I probably don’t, either.”

 

The pauses are so frequent and so excruciating that Steve has to fight the urge not to squirm. After another Bucky slowly says,

 

“I don’t know why they wanted to kill him. They liked people who created chaos and fear. It made the world need them more.”

 

“Dad wasn’t a weapons dealer so he could hurt people,” Tony snapped. “He wanted to protect them.”

 

“Maybe that was the problem,” Bucky says.

 

Tony finally looks Bucky in the eye at that. Or tries to, but Bucky clearly still isn’t on board with that idea.

 

“You think he died because he was too good at helping people?”

 

Bucky doesn’t answer, but finally raises his eyes too, locking onto Steve instead of Tony, lost.

 

“Flying cars,” he says, a little desperately. “Didn’t they promise we’d have them by now?”

 

Steve doesn’t answer, only stands there helplessly as he looks at Tony, whose face has twisted into something dreadful.

 

“Who has time to build flying cars when the world wants you to create super soldiers?”

 

***

 

Things are awkward and tense when Natasha leaves and they stay awkward and tense for the rest of the day. Tony barely tries to hide the fact that he can’t stand being in the same room as Bucky, constantly coming up with ridiculous excuses to leave the house. He has to go out for lunch because Sam has “the wrong kind of fridge.” He has to go get something for his anniversary with Pepper in four months. He needs to go sit in his car and make notes on a redesign he’s just thought of for the suit.

 

Things aren’t much better when Tony isn’t there, either, like just his introduction into the house has tipped the delicately balanced scales and everyone is back to the first days after the Triskelion fell. Bucky is almost non-verbal and no amount of coaxing from Sam can get him to relax as he keeps looking longingly to the door Natasha left through. He won’t even look at Steve, but closes in on himself even more if Steve makes a move to leave the room.

 

It gets so bad that Steve momentarily forgets that Bucky’s only just started to respond well to physical contact in very controlled circumstances, and reaches out to touch Bucky’s shoulder. It’s only the serum-afforded reflexes that keep him from getting a broken arm for his effort.

 

Even Tony tones it down a little after that when he comes back into the house and sees how upset both men are. He goes so far as to gently tell Steve to “give him some space” after Steve tries for the tenth time to corner Bucky and tell him that it’s okay.

 

“He’ll have an easier time believing you if you stop trying so damn hard to convince him, Cap.”

 

Bucky’s started to speak again, but not much else has improved much by the time Sam _finally_ comments, “Natasha will be finished testifying soon,” prompting Tony to heave a sigh and say,

 

“Thank _God_ congressmen have no work ethic. Let’s go. Natasha’s going to meet us at the jet.”

 

The contrary side of Steve really wants to point out to Tony that he came to forbid them from joining him at the tower, not to offer them a ride, and now he’s even urging _Sam_ to “pack an overnight bag – the kids need a responsible adult and I obviously don’t qualify.” The intelligent side wins out however, and Steve just grabs the bag he never unpacked from Sam’s guest room and follows the group outside. They pile into Tony’s town car and begin the drive out to Tony’s plane. Steve sits quietly and tries to wrap his head around how one person can own so much while Tony, finally back in his own space and his element, seems to get a tighter rein on his emotions. Even stuck in the middle of the non-stop traffic jam that is D.C., he starts to relax and actually begins to pester Bucky about his arm in that irritating testing way he has when he’s trying to determine someone’s worth.

 

“How much does it weigh?”

 

“Is it weaponized?”

 

“Do you _want_ it to be weaponized?”

 

“How much pressure can it exert on an object?”

 

“What about grip strength?”

 

“Are you happy with the range of motion?”

 

“Does it hurt?”

 

Bucky answers for a while by using as few words as possible, that hunted expression on his face the entire time. Steve manages to catch his eye and smile sympathetically, although he’s careful not to touch him this time. He’s fully aware of the emotional whiplash Tony can cause after he’s decided he’s going to make an effort. But even though Bucky relaxes slightly after holding Steve’s gaze for a second, he refuses to respond to the last question. Steve can feel how he freezes when Tony repeats himself, can hear the subtle shift in Bucky’s breathing, like he’s afraid to answer.

 

“It’s okay, Bucky,” he says, quietly. “It’s not a trap. You won’t get in trouble.”

 

“Doesn’t hurt,” Bucky grits out, and refuses to make eye contact with any of them for the rest of the ride.

 

Tony apparently finishes his assessment of Bucky then, and it seems to be a sympathetic one, which Steve might find more of a relief if it didn’t come with Tony’s own brand of commiserating. Which mainly consists of a stubborn refusal to let the subject die while somehow shutting the rest of the car out of the conversation, as he talks about all the modifications he’s going to make anyhow. Steve would be worried about Bucky jumping out of the car to get away, but he’s firmly sandwiched between him and Sam, and anyhow, Tony’s mind is a twisted pathway with many detours. It’s frankly hard to believe any of Tony’s plans can come to fruition when his monologuing makes a person wonder how he can stay focused long enough to tie his shoes in the morning:

 

“If I can’t make a person’s prosthetic more comfortable than an evil Nazi organization with a penchant for punishing weakness, I don’t deserve my action figure. That reminds me, at some point you are going to have to sign some paperwork allowing Stark Industries to make your action figure. Standard operating procedure for anyone with security clearance for the tower. Right, Happy?”

 

“Mine has jab and uppercut action,” the driver says, well, happily. “Like those Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots.”

 

Bucky is obviously still unhappy, even scared, about his weaknesses being put on display in front of everyone, but Steve is suddenly grateful for all the self-absorbed bravado anyhow. The more Bucky sees Steve’s new friends act like the likeable, casually protective idiots they are, the sooner he’ll be able to properly relax around them. Around _him_. Maybe.

 

When they finally reach the private airfield, Bucky doesn’t look thrilled at the thought of waiting for Natasha on the plane itself, and the others seem to sense it. Tony’s suddenly too busy taking a Very Important Phone Call that really sounds like an argument about one of those fantasy football things to set foot on the plane, and after that no one else makes a move to board either. Fortunately, they actually only spend about five minutes staring at each other in the open air awkwardly before Natasha screeches up in a rental to save them all from pretending they know how to make small talk.

 

Bucky almost lets out a small breath when he sees her climb out of the driver’s seat and start chatting to Happy, like he feels better knowing where she is. His whole body stiffens the next second though, when the passenger door opens and two new people climb out to stand next to her. One of them, at least, Steve knows.

 

“Look at who I found wandering around D.C.,” Natasha calls out as Steve walks up to shake hands with Bruce.

 

“Dr. Banner,” he says. “I didn’t realize you were in town.”

 

“Steve, please,” Bruce says, wearing that pained smile he always seems to have on when he’s embarrassed.

 

“Sorry,” Steve says, correcting himself. “Bruce.”

 

Bruce smiles at him and awkwardly runs a hand through his hair.

 

“Yeah, uh, sorry I missed out on the fun. Betty and I were incommunicado in Guyana for a while. We were on our way back and had a layover here when Tony sent this text about SHIELD going down in flames and how I couldn’t rely on them anymore for Ross Protection. Thought it would be safer to hitch a ride back with you guys.”

 

“Ross Protection?” Steve asks, a little bewildered.

 

“General Ross, not me,” the strange woman clarifies, and Steve finally turns to look at her properly.

 

She’s tall, beautiful, and radiates such an overwhelming air of calm Steve sort of wants to bask in her attention for as long as humanly possible.

 

“You must be Dr. Ross, then?” he says. “I’ve read about you in Dr. Banner’s file. It’s an honour.”

 

“Betty, please. And _that’s_ an odd thing to hear,” she says, not unpleasantly. “From Captain America, no less.”

 

“It’s like talking to a history book, isn’t it?” Bruce says, and despite the circumstances he sounds happier than Steve has ever heard him. “I don’t want to alarm you, but things are about to get even more surreal.”

 

He’s staring over Steve’s shoulder and when he glances back, Steve sees that Natasha has broken off from them. She and Sam have managed to convince Bucky to come a few feet closer as she evidently explains who everyone is.

 

“Wow,” Betty says, awed in that detached observer sort of way. “You really did find him.”

 

Steve is about to answer when Tony gets off the phone and joins them, smile a little too tight again, although it looks different than it had at Sam’s. If Steve knew Tony better, he’d almost think it looks a little petty.

 

“Bruce,” he says. “You should tell me the next time you’re bringing friends on our team retreats. Especially when they are bad influences who expect you to save the world in far off places without a reliable roaming package.”

 

No, apparently Steve knows Tony better than he thought. That is definitely petty.

 

“Hello, Mr. Stark. Bruce has told me so much about you.”

 

“Hmm,” says Tony. “Wish I could say the same – sorry, what was your name again? Betsy Ross?”

 

Steve frowns and is trying to think of a way to chastise someone without sounding like a grandmother when Bruce makes a disappointed noise and reaches for his wallet.

 

“Excellent!” Betty says. “Thank you, Tony.”

 

“What’s going on?” Tony demands. “What’s happening?”

 

“That you would pretend to forget her name was never up for debate,” Bruce says, as he pulls out several bills and passes them to Betty. “But I really thought you were going to go for Betty Ford.”

 

“Captain America and a Howling Commando are literally feet away from us,” Betty says, a little condescendingly. “Of course he’s going to go for the American history joke. Come on, Bruce. Use your head.”

 

Tony looks at Bruce as though betrayed.

 

“I don’t even know who you are anymore,” he says.

 

Bruce looks spectacularly unfazed but before he has a chance to respond, Tony’s whirling around on his heel and loudly demanding,

 

“Why are we still here? Why aren’t we in the air yet? Do I have to do everything around here?”

 

“Hang tight, boss,” Happy says, calmly. “The pilot had to step out to walk the co-pilot, but as soon as they come back we’re cleared for takeoff.”

 

“Don’t talk to me about the co-pilot,” Tony snaps. “That damned animal puked all over my John Lobbs.”

 

“Oh, I’ve missed this,” Natasha sighs as she rolls her eyes before winking at a miserable and overwhelmed-looking Bucky.

 

Steve immediately starts to head back towards him and almost misses the brown streak of fur that comes barreling towards them before it actually leaps into Sam’s arms.

 

“What the hell,” says Sam, a second before Clint Barton wanders up, holding a leash and starting in on Tony almost instinctively, like he doesn’t have to guess what Tony has been whining about.

 

“I already told you, Stark, I can’t just leave him alone while we’re still forging a bond, okay? And even if that pet forum _didn’t_ say not to do it, he keeps running into shit. Lack of depth perception is traumatizing, alright?”

 

“Didn’t you used to have bad depth perception?” Bucky asks, glancing at Steve. “There was something messed up with your eyes, right?”

 

Steve doesn’t know if it’s more surprising to hear him speak in front of such a chaotic audience or to see him edge closer to Sam to scratch behind the dog’s ear.

 

Steve smiles at Bucky and is opening his mouth to clarify when Clint unceremoniously cuts him off, grabbing the dog back and saying,

 

“If you’re talking about Vintage Cap, probably. Pretty sure a stiff breeze could have killed mini-Steve. Hey Nat, look! I got a dog!”

 

Natasha shakes her head long-sufferingly, but doesn’t hold back her fond smile when she says,

 

“This is why I keep telling people you shouldn’t go on solo missions. You’re such a sucker for strays.”

 

“Well at least I didn’t destroy my place of employment in my down time,” Clint points out. “Nice find with the war-hero-slash-former-babysitter, though.”

 

“Are we done with the touching reunions yet?” Tony asks, impatiently. “Maybe we can load the garbage-eating vomit comet and the decommissioned Terminator onto the plane and head out?”

 

“So soon?” Steve asks, dryly. “Are you sure Thor won’t be teleporting down to gawk at him for a while, too?”

 

“We’re not gawking,” Clint protests, even as he stares at Bucky in unbridled curiosity. “We just happened to be in the area.”

 

Steve rolls his eyes, but lets it go when Bruce claps him on the shoulder and says,

 

“Thor probably didn’t learn much about World War II in history class. I doubt he understands the draw.”

 

“Yeah, well, 70 years,” Steve shrugs, giving in and going along with it. “That’s hardly history for him, is it? I bet he’s had longer lunches.”

 

“Why are you talking so much about ancient gods?” Bucky asks Steve, still carefully refusing to acknowledge anyone new as they climb the steps to the jet. “I didn’t forget about the fall of the Christian church too, did I?”

 

“Weeell,” Steve says. “Not exactly. It’s been forced to adapt a lot, though. The good news is, once the aliens showed up and the Norse god of lightning had tea with the Pope, the church decided there were more important things to panic about than homosexuality.”

 

***

 

Once they’re up in the air and Tony is happily annoying Bruce, Steve expects Bucky to relax a little more. Without the constant commotion, invasive questioning, and obvious staring, it makes sense that Bucky would start to lose some of the tension in his shoulders and the wariness in his eyes. And, after almost half an hour, he does. Marginally. On the far side of the plane, well away from everyone except for the dog – Lucky, Clint had said – his real hand buried in the fur like it’s a lifeline.

 

Steve starts to make a move like he’s going to stand before Natasha reaches out to stop him.

 

“No, give him some space,” she says, glancing to Sam to make sure he’s paying attention. “He’s met a flock of superheroes and learned that a thunder god is real in the space of an hour. Let him process. We have other things to talk about, anyhow.”

 

“Oh?” Steve says. There’s an urgency in her voice that she’s trying to mask, like she’s trying to hide it from the rest of them. It makes Steve want to jump out of the plane a little bit. He’s not sure if he can handle more problems to solve.

 

“It’s about the hearing,” Natasha says softly. “And the information we released to the public. Steve, they’re looking at everything. They’re going to find out everything.”

 

“Well that _was_ the plan,” Sam points out.

 

“I mean everything _he_ did,” Natasha says, inclining her head slightly towards Bucky.

 

“You mean everything HYDRA forced him to do,” Steve says. “There’s no way America is going to hold a brainwashed POW accountable for the actions of his captors. Not when I’m through talking to them.”

 

“I know,” Natasha says. “I’m not worried about the kills HYDRA assigned to him. But what about the others?”

 

“Others?” Steve repeats, stupidly, even though his heart is beating hard, like he’s being forced to look at something he doesn’t want to see.

 

“Well, he’s obviously killed people outside of his orders before,” Natasha says. “No one told him to hurt the old man, and Hydra definitely knew it happened, so there’s going to be a record of it somewhere. And even before then, the entire time I was with the Red Room, there were always rumours that he couldn’t be trusted. He was like a Soviet campfire horror story: never team up with the Winter Soldier, because you never know if he’s going to break parameters on _you_ , next.”

 

“So people are going to say he’s an unpredictable killing machine,” Steve says flatly.

 

“Might be better for him if they did,” Natasha murmurs. “At least then no one could call his actions premeditated.”

 

“So you don’t think it was random,” Sam says, speaking like he already knows the answer.

 

Natasha doesn’t look away from Steve when she says,

 

“Not when the last target he chose on his own ended up being Stoller’s tombstone.”

 

“ _Shit,_ ” Steve says, leaning back in his seat and staring at the ceiling. He still doesn’t want to believe it, but he knows Bucky.  It would be just like him to stick his neck out for Steve, even if he only did it out of pure instinct. Especially if he only did it out of pure instinct.

 

“Okay,” Sam says, when it becomes apparent that Steve isn’t going to take the lead on this one. “Let’s start with what we know. Natasha, you don’t by some miraculous chance remember that victim’s name, do you?”

 

“Of course she doesn’t,” Steve snaps. “She was a child. Why would she remember something like that?”

 

“I actually do,” Natasha says. “I was learning to write in English when it happened, and the name on the door of his room was one of the first things I ever read without help. He bought me a present after I told him, to celebrate.”

 

“ _The Wizard of Oz_?” Steve guesses.

 

Natasha smiles at him apologetically, and Steve slumps over a little and pleads,

 

“Please don’t say it.”

 

He’s just gotten Bucky back. The idea the he might lose him again, and that Bucky is going to get into trouble for essentially trying to protect him, is terrifying.

 

“I think that one was Douglas,” says a quiet voice on the other side of the plane.

 

Steve looks over and sees Bucky staring back at him, exhausted and sad. A hush has fallen over the entire plane. Steve wonders when that happened, wonders how long they’ve all been listening.

 

“It’s funny,” Bucky says, hand absently running through Lucky’s fur. “I remember thinking about how little Natalia was. How important it was for her to stay away from him, but I wasn’t worried about her seeing him die. I just didn’t want him to touch her. I think I was starting to make some sort of connection.”

 

“Is that why you did it?” Sam asks. “You were remembering what happened to you and Steve?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Bucky says, fidgeting a little. He’s frowning and his eyes are darting around the cabin. “I remember parts of it, but it’s still confusing. Maybe because it was confusing when it happened. I know I wanted them dead, but I didn’t want…”

 

Bucky trails off helplessly as Steve tries to stave off the panic that sky-rocketed the second he heard Bucky say “them.” How many monsters from their past did the Winter Soldier reach? Steve can honestly say he feels a perverse sort of satisfaction at the thought of them dying horribly, but it won’t be worth it if they lock Bucky up for his efforts.

 

“Ow!”

 

A voice behind them makes everyone’s head turn, and they see an embarrassed but mostly obstinate Betty glaring at Bruce as he rubs his arm. Tony is staring at her in equal parts disbelief and admiration.

 

“Did you just pinch a man who explodes into a green monster when irritated while on an _airplane_?”

 

Betty rolls her eyes.

 

“Because _you’ve_ never tried to startle the Hulk into making an appearance on an aircraft before,” she says. “Bruce and I _do_ talk, you know.”

 

She redirects her attention back to Bruce.

 

“Stop being polite,” she says, sternly. “It’s not fair.”

 

“Betty,” Bruce starts, but she interrupts, her voice an impressive combination of gentle and reproachful.

 

“No. Who else is going to have a better idea how to handle this, Bruce?”

 

“Alright, alright,” Bruce says, raising his hands in surrender before turning to look directly at Bucky. Steve feels his affection for the man grow, for talking _to_ Bucky instead of _about_ him.

 

“I don’t know how much you know about me, or why I’m an Avenger,” he says, and Steve almost laughs at the look of impatience that flashes across Bucky’s face before quickly returning to its near constant air of trepidation. In his head he can hear the Bucky he used to know, sarcastically saying,

 

“Is it because you explode into a big green monster when you get angry? You know, the thing that was just mentioned two seconds ago? Is that the reason you’re a superhero?”

 

Bruce catches it, too, and coughs a little before saying,

 

“Right. You have ears. So you know, but, um, that’s not exactly a smooth transformation for me. Even when I’m not a threat, I’m not exactly _me_ , either. I know a few things about being forced to be a passive observer in your own body. It’s not pleasant.”

 

“It’s like a nightmare,” Bucky says, hesitantly, like he’s still not convinced he’s allowed to say it.

 

“Exactly,” Bruce says. “The ones where something is in control of your body and you can’t stop it.”

 

“I tried so hard to wake up when I managed to start remembering,” Bucky says. “But it never worked. Even when I could make my body listen, I couldn’t control what I _did_.”

 

“You remember the bad things first,” Bruce says, and he sounds a little bit like he’s parroting a therapist – or his own Sam. “The scared kid wakes up first and they’re piloting a body that can fight back. And that’s exactly what it does: fights old ghosts messily and inelegantly, and it feels like there’s no way to stop it. The thing is, until you have a chance to work through some of that bad stuff that you can’t forget, there _isn’t_ a way to stop it. You have to be treated like a human to start feeling like one again. I’m going out on a limb here and guessing HYDRA wasn’t big on letting that happen. They didn’t want you to figure out that they were another enemy.”

 

“It still never would have happened like that if I didn’t want it,” Bucky says, so softly Steve isn’t sure if Bruce even heard, but Natasha definitely did.

 

“There was no other way it could have happened,” she says. “You were still a weapon. You were still carrying out orders like a weapon. It doesn’t matter if HYDRA never gave you the kill order, it’s still their fault.”

 

Bucky doesn’t answer and after a moment Betty stands up and starts rummaging around the cabin, looking for a pen and paper. She resolutely ignores Tony’s offense that he would carry something so low-tech on his craft and grins at him in triumph when she finds an old customs form and very expensive looking fountain pen.

 

“I’m going to give you a couple names,” she says, also looking directly at Bucky when she talks, and Steve just wants to kiss everyone on this plane.

 

“You tell them that Bruce and I referred you. One is a psychiatrist, and he’s really helped Bruce out a lot since New York – especially with reconciling his personalities.”

 

“Wait,” Tony interrupts. “All that running and self-loathing and all you needed was couch talk? Why didn’t you just go to him before?”

 

“It’s not that simple,” Bruce mutters, but Betty only rolls her eyes and says,

 

“He’s my ex. Bruce needed to get the childish posturing out of his system first.”

 

The conversation is pretty effectively derailed after that by Tony’s heckling, which gets so loud that Clint comes in over the intercom at one point, to demand that everyone stop having fun without him. They’re already starting to land before Betty gets around to the second contact, reaching forward through the seats to hand Steve the paper.

 

“As soon as James starts to sort out more of what he did as the Winter Soldier – including anything connected to your pasts in Brooklyn – give her a call.”

 

“You know,” Tony comments. “Pepper keeps an entire stable of lawyers on payroll. You don’t need a referral.”

 

“No,” Bruce says. “Betty’s right. “If anyone can make this go away for you, it’s Jennifer.”

 

“She didn’t help you,” Tony points out. “I’m still hiding you from General Ross like he’s some sort of spurned lover.”

 

“Well, she gained her experience a little too late to help me much,” Bruce shrugs. “But I promise you, you will not find any other lawyer on the planet with her experience looking out for artificially-enhanced New Yorkers with split personalities.”

 


	3. The Drowned Ceremony of Innocence, Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shifting PoV alert! Sorry for the extra long delay, all! This story continues to not cooperate with me, but I genuinely hope that I'm passed most of the quirky issues that unexpectedly hold up progress now that this chapter is out of the way.
> 
> Second, any time you stumble across anything related to the law, medicine, or the government in this chapter, assume it is bullshit. One of those unexpected roadblocks in this chapter was the dawning realization that no matter how much research I do, I will never be able to reconcile superhero reality with actual reality. So in the end I just started to make shit up.
> 
> **Third VERY IMPORTANT THING SO READ IT PLEASE:** A message from me and my beta, brought to you via re-enactment.
> 
> [ _Found in the margins of a word document_ ]  
>  **ME:** I am so bad at assessing the severity of ick when I write about medical procedures. Does this need a new trigger warning?  
>  **MY BETA:** Definitely. Just a little something to let people know something's coming. "Medical gore" maybe?  
>  **MY BETA, ABOUT A PAGE LATER:** JESUS CHRIST WHAT IS THIS?? I NEED TO SLEEP AT NIGHT WHY AM I EDITING THIS? I CAN NEVER UNREAD THIS AND YOU NEED MULTIPLE TRIGGER WARNINGS WHY DID YOU EVEN NEED TO ASK THIS QUESTION.
> 
> **Moral:**... Reader beware? I'm a bit of a menace? Tags and warnings have been updated, is what I'm trying to say. (New editions: Gore, Medical Procedures, Body Horror, Medical Torture, Medical Experimentation.)
> 
> A million thank yous to said beta, [MomentsofWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness), as well, because I am handing her some traumatizing shit and she's still fixing my mistakes like a trooper.

 

 

 

 

 

_“No Bucky, wait a minute. That’s not where the tinned meat goes.”_

 

_“Pardon?”_

_“Tinned meat goes on the second shelf. That way we always know where it is.”_

_“Steve, would you please just go lie down and rest for a little? You’re supposed to be taking it easy not following me around like a nervous hen.”_

_“Then do it right.”_

_“Steve, the only things in the damn cupboard are two tins of Spam,_

_–_ Target 853’s–

_home-canned peas, and a can of baked beans.”_

_“And I picked places for all of them.”_

_“What for? So nothing gets lost behind all the air?”_

_“Bucky, come on. Don’t ruin this for me. It’s just fun._

_–_ Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century–

–Copy that. Target acquired.–

_“Yeah, right. Cute. Look, why don’t we take a break from all of this fun kitchen work and work on moving the rest of our things into the_

–oh God please don’t hurt me–

_“Steve, really? You’ve already managed to drag this whole process out about ten times as long as it needs to be. You should go easier on yourself. You’re still not back in fighting shape.”_

_“I’m never in fighting shape, Bucky. Don’t worry so much, now come on let’s go._

–I want to see you succeed in life, James–

–I’m sorry. I’ll try harder. I’ll be better–

–Asset, report–

–You’re not gonna tell anyone, are you–

***

 

If Steve has a problem with Betty’s advice, Bucky wishes he would just say something. His mind is still foggy, and he has trouble keeping people straight in his head. It’s been worse since they left the hospital, with all the new faces and places they expect him to learn. He doesn’t know if he’s remembering Clint Barton properly or confusing him with someone from the docks in the 30s. It makes it hard to even keep track of Steve, who he feels like he knows pretty well, even with the gaps he worries may never come back to him.

 

But every time he sees Steve frown at Betty’s note, it throws him off balance. He has to stop and remember who Betty even is, and then it takes a second to remember who _he_ is, and what Steve thinks about him. In those first few seconds all he can see is someone unhappy, and the muscles start to lock up one-by-one, getting ready for pain. He’s pretty sure Steve isn’t like that to anyone, let alone to Bucky, but unless he’s constantly on his guard, his body doesn’t seem to care.

 

It’s stressful enough that he stays as far away from Steve as he can while still keeping him in sight (he can’t lose this man again) as they set up their floor on Stark Tower. Shadowing Sam feels safer, so that’s what he does. Sam seems a little surprised to see him stick so close at first. So is Bucky. He’s become used to Sam’s company since the Triskelion and he puts up with it, mostly because the man seems important to Steve, but he never thought much about him in D.C.

 

Maybe Sam is familiar compared to all the other people he’s met since getting up this morning. Or maybe it’s because Sam’s easy-going, calming presence doesn’t fill Bucky with the need to perform like a circus monkey. Bucky feels the echoes of his history with Steve like a lead weight on his ankle every time he so much as looks his direction, like he’s waiting for Bucky to have a breakthrough and start remembering the “good old days” instead of the nightmarish memories that keep crowding everything else out. And Bucky _knows_ that what they had must have been good and important, because the instinct to trust and follow and love Steve is so strong, but not being able to remember anything concrete feels like letting Steve down. Sam was never a part of his past, and that makes it easier to stay close to him in the present.

 

Which isn’t to say Sam doesn’t have obvious recovery plans of his own when it comes to Bucky. The constant demands to interact and vocalize his thoughts are getting a little wearing.

 

“Bucky knows what I’m talking about, right Bucky?” Sam says as they put away the groceries that Stark’s talking tower ordered for them before their arrival.

 

He looks expectantly at Bucky, his hands full of avocadoes and doesn’t seem upset at all when Bucky can only shake his head, at a loss for what he’s supposed to say.

 

“Natasha has her own floor,” Sam says, like he knows Bucky hasn’t listened to a single word anyone’s said for the past 15 minutes. “I think Captain America should have his own floor. None of this sharing with two whole other people nonsense. What does Stark think he’s running, a basecamp? What, does he think because we’ve all been on tour we’re okay with being crammed in here like sardines? Men smell _terrible_. I don’t want to cuddle up to any of them even if they arewar heroes.”

 

“Tony didn’t even _know_ you until a few hours ago,” Steve says, not looking up from the note. “I’m sure he’ll build you your own wing just as soon as he’s done making your toy.”

 

“Action figure, Steve,” Sam corrects. “He promised me it would fly, so please don’t take away from its importance. And stop staring at those damn numbers instead of using them. They won’t call themselves.”

 

“ _If I may, Airman Wilson,_ ” comes the British voice from the ceiling that Tony keeps insisting is “so much more” than a sentient tower (which is terrifying enough). “ _It’s no trouble at all for me to ring the numbers for the Captain and put the phone on speaker if he would rather keep his hands free to continue unpacking._ ”

 

“You can do that?” Steve asks, interested. “But they’re on paper. I haven’t given them to you.”

 

“ _Captain_ , _I_ do _have cameras,_ ” the voice says, in a slightly disapproving tone. Bucky thinks he might like Stark’s not-Tower, no matter how much he hates not being able to see who’s talking.

 

Steve smiles faintly, but instead of giving the go-ahead, he looks worriedly to Sam and Bucky.

 

“I don’t know who I should call,” he admits. “I’d really love to set-up a meeting with Bruce’s psychiatrist like Betty suggested, but I’m worried about Bucky talking to anyone before he sees a lawyer. Not to mention the fact that we’re sitting on a time bomb with this. People could start to put the pieces together any time. I don’t like the idea of being ambushed by bureaucrats trying to win points with the public by making some kind of fear-pandering, ultra-nationalist example out of this.”

 

“Maybe they should,” Bucky says, carefully, trying not to let himself think about how he’s disagreeing with Steve, but unable to be quiet because whenever they talk about his innocence he can feel blood dripping off his hands. “I killed a lot of people.”

 

He leans back slightly, and tries not to be too obvious about how hard it is to say what’s on his mind, but the sad look that flashes across Steve’s face says he’s not successful.

 

“Roman gladiators killed a lot of people, too,” Steve says. “It doesn’t mean it was their fault.”

 

“Seriously man,” Sam says, not unkindly. “We just got to get the world to see HYDRA as Michael Vick, and you as a beat up pit bull who’s a prime candidate for successful rehabilitation. No one would ever blame Michael Vick’s pit bulls for picking fights if they went straight from the kennels to the dog park.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky says, flatly.

 

It feels nice to be able to admit it and know there’s no risk of getting ambushed by those big, sad blue eyes every time he admits ignorance. There _is_ a part of him that gets alarmed at the grin Sam gets whenever he speaks directly to him, but that’s still easier to bear than the weight of Steve’s disappointment.

 

The part of him that’s been waking up a little more every day he spends away from HYDRA wants to tell Steve to knock it off, but he also gets the feeling that Steve believes he’s been successfully masking his emotions. It seems a shame to tell him otherwise.

 

_“I do apologise for continuing to interrupt, gentlemen,”_ comes the voice in the ceiling again. _“But I don’t believe it matters who you decide to speak with first. This is a matter of international importance and Sergeant Barnes is a beloved national icon as much as you are, Captain. I am of the opinion that there will be considerable pressure on law enforcement agencies to tread lightly as they deal with this, and they are unlikely to focus on the Sergeant immediately when there are so many other HYDRA agents being found at every level of government. There should be time for you to set up your meetings as you see fit. Additionally, I have been informed by Dr. Ross that she’s been in contact with both Dr. Samson and Ms. Walters since landing. They are both able to make arrangements for emergency consultations, within the next 24 hours if necessary. All you have to do is place the calls.”_

“Damn,” says Sam, staring at the ceiling. “JARVIS, you are one terrifyingly efficient robot butler.”

_“I’m actually an artificial intelligence,”_ says JARVIS, in a tone that could almost be modest. “ _But I’ll take that as the compliment it was meant to be._ ”

 

***

 

Sam is away for the evening – out to dinner to catch up with an old friend who lives in Manhattan. Bucky tries to fight off the panic he feels when the other man walks into the elevator. As he paces around the floor like a caged animal, he wonders when it happened. When did he decide that Sam had to be close by before he felt safe, like Steve and Natalia? The more he lets himself feel, the heavier he leans on the people around him, and that’s terrifying to Bucky.

 

He narrows his eyes at Steve suspiciously when Natalia walks into their common area about half an hour later, wondering if Steve told her that Bucky’s cracking and requested backup, but he looks as surprised as Bucky feels.

 

“Not going to spend your first evening back catching up with Clint?” He asks, as she flops down onto the couch looking for a place to set up the STARK laptop in her hands.

 

“Clint is otherwise occupied trying to train a dog that has to be at least five-years-old to roll over,” Natalia says. “He won’t even know I’m gone. Besides, we have work to do before your meetings with Samson and Walters tomorrow, and JARVIS will be much more helpful with this task than Clint.”

 

“What does that mean, exactly?” Steve asks, uncertainly.

 

“Well, we know Bucky killed Douglas,” she says, her blunt words making it hard for Bucky to keep breathing. “And you ID’d the grave he desecrated, but James doesn’t think it stopped there, do you James?”

 

“I know it doesn’t,” Bucky says, trying to ignore the worried look on Steve’s face. He doesn’t know how many times he needs to repeat himself before Steve understands he’s a bad person now. “I killed a lot of people.”

 

“And _I_ don’t want you to get turned into some kind of HYDRA scapegoat over any of it,” Natalia says as she sits down on the couch and sets up the laptop, reading the guilt in his words as clearly as if he said it out loud. “We need to make sure no one else is going to want that either. The biggest obstacle standing in the way of that right now is the fact that you killed without orders.”

 

“So what’s the plan?” Steve asks.

 

“Figure out who from your school Bucky killed, and where, and how,” She says. “We’ll give JARVIS the information and he can help us find information on how they died, which will help us verify what Bucky is able to remember. You can show it to Walters and see what she has to say.”

 

“ _If Captain Rogers and Sergeant Barnes could compile a likely list of names it would be quite helpful as a starting point,”_ JARVIS chimes in. _“Even if you don’t remember the full name of someone, I’m sure I can provide some results on a partial name.”_

“I haven’t forgotten any names,” Steve says quietly as he goes to sit down next to Natalia.

 

Something inside of Bucky actually _hurts_ when he hears that, and he thinks he must be mirroring the expression Steve had been giving him only moments before. He’s struck with an overwhelming urge to take Steve’s memories for his own. To give himself the chance to fully remember while giving Steve a chance to fully forget.

 

He still doesn’t remember much about the school when he actively tries, but if he sits quietly and allows himself permission to _feel_ , the sensations pour down on him in waves. He doesn’t know how he met Steve, or how they became friends, but he remembers the sickening childlike terror he’d felt for a big personality in a tiny weak body. He remembers feeling cold when he was forced to accept that he might not have Steve forever.

 

He doesn’t remember _why_ that loss should matter to him, exactly. He doesn’t remember that thing Steve never seems to have lost, that makes him look at Bucky sometimes with soft and joyful eyes, like they shared something purely _good_. Bucky doesn’t remember anything happy enough to justify looking back at Steve like that. He remembers pain and anger and helplessness. It’s all he remembers about any point in his life, honestly. Sometimes there’s the hint of something pleasant there (the sound of Steve’s laughter, Natalia practicing the Roman alphabet), but waves of pain and loss crash down on him before he can hold onto them properly. He’s not sure he’d believe he has anything good to find at all, but he can feel the space where it should be, and it aches, like the phantom pains in his missing arm.

 

After a bit of coaxing, Bucky sits on Natalia’s other side, and they both wait quietly as Steve writes down names. It’s just as well that Steve handles this part, because apart from Douglas he doesn’t remember any of them. There are fragments of crime scenes that flash in front of his eyes when he tries to force the memories (a knife from one, blood stains from another), but he can’t remember much beyond that. The murders he committed under order are a little more solid, maybe because there are so many more for him to remember, but these ones connected to his past are as much a mystery to him as they are to Steve and Natalia.

 

Once Steve is finally done, he hands the list over to Bucky and Natalia. None of the names make him remember the faces of specific victims, although a couple (like “Eva Wagner” and “Jack Preston”) strike him as out-of-place somehow.

 

“Look up Atherton first,” Steve suggests, and his voice sounds strange, like he’s eager to hear the answer but is trying not to be. It strikes Bucky as so _wrong_ coming from Steve that he leans around Natalia to give him a hard look.

 

Steve squirms a little but finally says,

 

“It’s just… since we have to do this, I would like to know how he died. I’d like to know how bad it was.”

 

It’s obviously Steve’s way of saying “I hope it was really bad” and Bucky isn’t the only one who heard it, because Natalia raises an eyebrow at Steve and comments,

 

“He must have really had it coming.”

 

Steve gives her a tight smile and she projects her voice to the room slightly as she says,

 

“How about it, JARVIS? Can you find any police or coroner reports regarding the death of a Joseph Atherton?”

 

***

 

It takes a couple of hours, but eventually everyone gets too shook up by the subject matter to keep going. Steve can’t stop pacing, and Bucky won’t leave the corner of the room closest to the door, so Natalia sighs and tells them both to take 15 minutes to clear their heads. Steve runs for the bathroom like he’s going to make a break for it through the window. Bucky can strongly relate, because this room is the last place he wants to be, even though it’s full of safe people.

 

He goes out into the hallway instead, to the entryway just large enough to make him feel uneasy. There’s much too much space here for an area that amounts to nothing more than a coat rack and doors to the elevator. He slides down the wall and buries his hands in his hair, knees resting on elbows as he tries to breathe. Maybe if he focuses hard enough he’ll be able to get the smell of blood out of his nose.

 

But of course his body is trained too well to ever properly relax, so when the doors to the elevator open, his head whips up and his body tenses without his permission. He’s ready for a fight. He gets a face full of happy panting and dog breath instead.

 

“Evening,” Clint says, cheerfully, like they’re friendly neighbours crossing paths during an evening walk. “Sorry to interrupt, but it’s getting pretty late. I thought I should come make sure Natasha hasn’t broken your spirits yet.”

 

Bucky still doesn’t quite know how to take Barton, so he remains silent, reaching out to pet the dog, acting like he’s not paying attention to Clint at all (they both know better). Clint stands there awkwardly for a moment before slowly sliding down the wall across from him, copying Bucky’s position. They quietly watch Lucky’s agonized attempts to decide who to sit next to, the room being far too wide to let him choose both. He finally flops down against Bucky, grumbling loudly. Bucky smiles a little despite himself.

 

“So,” Clint finally says, and he sounds just as bad at small talk as Bucky is at any talk. “Rough night?”

 

“Had worse,” Bucky says, more to Lucky than to Clint.

 

“Yeah, but all you’ve been doing is talking about the worse ones,” Clint says, reasonably. “Not my idea of a fun time.”

 

Bucky doesn’t say anything and keeps petting Lucky, smiling again when he scratches under the collar and the dog’s back leg starts to thud against the floor.

 

“The part I hated most about brainwashing was remembering,” Clint offers. “It took a long time to sort out everything that I’d done, and I never knew when a new memory would jump out at me. Life turned into a shitty surprise party. One that was, like, thrown by serial killing clowns or something.”

 

“I’m remembering fine,” Bucky says, finally, because Natalia trusts this man, he can see that. She’s even spoken of him in D.C., and mentioned what happened during the battle of New York. Bucky isn’t sure about a lot of things right now, but he’s sure that he can trust her. Even so, he still doesn’t look up, keeping his focus on Lucky, who rolls onto his back, eyes glazing over in bliss as Bucky scratches. He thinks he maybe always wanted a dog.

 

“The bad memories seem to be doing alright. The other stuff is still pretty hazy, though.”

 

Clint nods, thoughtfully.

 

“Still,” he says. “That’s way faster than it came together for me, and you’ve had assholes fucking up your brain longer than I’ve been alive. God, if I had that serum in me, I’d probably gotten my memories back after three minutes.”

 

“I don’t have all of them back,” Bucky reminds him.

 

“But you will,” Clint says with all the certainty of a layman. “There’s no way your brain won’t find a way to knit itself together and get everything back. You just need to wait a little longer, I guess.”

 

Bucky has nothing to say to that, either, so they sit there again in slightly more comfortable silence until Clint clears his throat again and says,

 

“Uh, you know Tasha talked about you all the time, right?”

 

Bucky actually does look at him now. He doesn’t know which throws him more off balance: The words themselves or that he’s never heard anyone call her “Tasha” before.

 

“I didn’t,” he says.

 

“Well, I mean she talked about you to _me_ ,” Clint clarifies. “She doesn’t tell many people about the things that matter. I think she gets scared that someone will take them away if she does.”

 

Bucky nods uncertainly, still not sure where this is going.

 

“I just mean,” Clint says, clumsily, “You were really important to her.”

 

“Oh,” Bucky says, softly. He’s going to leave it at that until he suddenly feels obligated to add, “She was very important to me, too.”

 

Then, after another moment’s thought: “If you ever hurt her, I’ll probably kick your skull inside out.”

 

Clint bursts out laughing.

 

“Understood,” he says, still laughing. “Wow. I always knew that if I ever got a shovel talk for Natasha it would be a special one. You really have to raise the stakes when she’s already so scary herself.”

 

Bucky smiles a little. He’s still smiling when the elevator doors slide open again and Sam walks in, staggering slightly, and then staggering even more when he once again ends up with his arms full of dog.

 

“Barton, is this how you’ve trained this thing to greet people? What’s going to happen if you ever get to meet Stephen Hawking? They’ll never invite you back to Cambridge to discuss Planck’s Constant again.”

 

He eyes Clint and Bucky a little suspiciously.

 

“Did you all get thrown out?” He asks. “Did somebody take a wiz in the corner but the rest of you refuse to rat the guilty one out?”

 

He looks at Lucky, who licks his face.

 

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Sam says, nuzzling the dog’s ear slightly with his nose. “You damned, dirty animal.”

 

“You’re all idiots,” comes Natalia’s fond voice in the doorway. She reaches far enough out to poke Bucky in the shoulder. “I think we’re going to call it a night, James. Maybe have a drink or two before we turn in, so you and Sam can cuddle the dog some more before you have to say goodbye.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam says, as he clutches the far-too-large-to-be-carried dog closer to his chest, strolling inside after her. “I hate this thing.”

 

***

 

The next morning at breakfast Steve tells him about the hours Bucky wasted along with their neighbours (“Rich and Cal,” Steve calls them) and Mrs. Bowers, trying to teach Steve how to dance.

 

“I was such a lost cause,” Steve grins. “Two left feet, no stamina, and even less rhythm. It took me months to convince the lot of you to let it go. And you never did stop trying to take me out dancing.”

 

Bucky doesn’t remember any of it. He wishes he could. Evenings spent joking with friendly faces in neutral territory sounds amazing, but when he tries he runs up against a blank wall in his head. If he keeps trying he can imagine the sounds of laughter coming from the other side. It’s a place he can’t reach and isn’t entirely sure he belongs anymore.

 

He wants to give up, but he recognizes the hope in Steve’s eyes for what it is as he tells his little stories. Steve is still so alone in this new world they’ve fallen into. He has Bucky in a way, but everything that made him _Steve’s_ Bucky has been scooped out and who’s left almost doesn’t deserve the same name as the person Steve knew. Bucky feels like a stranger to himself, and he worries that it’s even worse for Steve, so Bucky tries to give him what he wants.

 

It doesn’t work. Not even his memories cooperate with him.

 

“I hated dancing,” he finally says, interrupting the flow of Steve’s story.

 

“What?” Steve says, a little nervous and a lot worried. “Bucky, no. You loved it. You were such a good dancer, it was worth making a fool of myself to see you out there, turning heads.”

 

“You were always miserable,” Bucky says. “I was always scared.”

 

He can’t remember a single time they actually danced, but he can remember the old fear clawing at his chest. He can still feel it, like it never left.

 

“Scared?” Steve repeats, shocked.

 

Bucky shifts a little, suddenly uncomfortable, like he’s spilling the old Bucky’s secrets, which doesn’t seem fair. He can’t help it though. He can’t seem to keep straight which memories were carefully guarded secrets and which ones were common knowledge.

 

“I only ever made you go because I thought someone was sniffing around and getting too close to the truth,” Bucky says. “I wouldn’t have put you through all that otherwise.”

 

Steve just stares at him for a few minutes looking like something wonderful has just been taken away from him. Bucky hunches in on himself a little more before Steve finally recovers enough to say,

 

“You didn’t have to do that for me, Bucky.”

 

“I’m pretty sure I did,” Bucky says, surprised when he feels the urge to laugh. It’s not a happy laugh and he kills it before it reaches his face. Steve’s inability to accept help even when it would be dangerous not to seems irritatingly familiar.

 

Bucky remembers leaning over to give Steve a quick peck on the lips before leaving for work and pulling away a second too late as he pulls open the door to see a sour-faced woman glaring at them suspiciously. He remembers how hard his heart would hammer as he made a show of loudly parading a pretty girl on his arm on the street below the woman’s window the next night as they went to the dance hall. Sam told him that, so long as no one’s being hurt by it, the law now tries to protect instead of arrest people in love. Bucky thinks that’s good. It makes his mind a little quieter and lets him feel a little more settled into his skin, but it doesn’t make his memories of the past any better.

 

He thinks there’s still something wrong with his brain, and if the thought of a doctor wasn’t so upsetting, he might ask Steve if there was a way to find out. The past Steve describes sounds like a Rockwell painting, but Bucky feels more like he came from the one with the screaming man standing under a collapsing sky. (He’s not sure how he even knows about that painting. Maybe he stole it for someone. Maybe Steve showed it to him once, in that same past they both have such different ideas of.) And now, as he tries to steer his way through the present, he thinks the sky might still be caving in, even if he doesn’t see much point in screaming about it anymore.

 

***

 

Dr. Leo Samson reminds Bucky of his father. Not that he can remember his father, exactly, but when he looks at the man sitting across from him, he’s struck with a funny sort of childish longing that seems familiar, as if at some point in his life he spent a lot of time creating the idea of his father from whole cloth. Dr. Samson –

 

(“Please call me Doc Samson,” he says, like he can’t see the way Bucky lurches to a stop when he hears “doctor.” “All my patients do.”)

 

– _Doc_ Samson speaks confidently but not aggressively. Bucky knows he could squash the man like a bug, but still he feels calmer, less hunted, when he listens to the careful lilt of his voice. He sounds like a man who is able to stay in control without throwing weight around to do it. He’s dressed in a way that seems casual to Bucky – a loose green cardigan over a lightly patterned button-down and light khaki pants. But people seem to wear a lot of things they didn’t used to, and having seen what Tony wears around the tower, maybe dressing this way for work is allowed now. Everything about him screams “trust me” and Bucky finds himself wanting to obey.

 

It’s just him and Steve and Samson in the (bland and inoffensive) office. Doc Samson doesn’t sit at a desk, and there’s empty space between the visitors’ chairs and Samson’s. Steve asks no less than five times if Bucky would feel better if he waited outside for this meeting, but Bucky just shakes his head.

 

“If you’re going to find out I’m a lost cause, it might as well be from an expert,” he finally says. “So far you haven’t listened to me.”

 

He feels better with Steve in the room, too (even as Steve clucks at him in disapproval). Less likely to fly to pieces when he knows Steve is there to watch his back. He doesn’t say that part out loud. He’s pretty sure Steve knows already, and judging by Samson’s thoughtful expression as he stares at the both of them, the expert in question _definitely_ does.

 

Bucky also admits (but only to himself) that he’d hoped Steve would step up to the plate a little and speak so he wouldn’t have to. Talking about himself and his emotions still feels forbidden to him, and even with the precious nickname, Doc Samson is still a doctor who wants to look into his mind and make adjustments. He feels trapped, like he has to be honest, but doing so will get him into trouble, and Bucky can’t shake the feeling that Steve will know the magic combination of words needed to give Doc Samson what he wants while still keeping him from rewriting Bucky. Like he can trust Steve to know his mind completely, and to know exactly what he needs. It’s wishful thinking, probably, or the remains of some old sappy belief he’d had before everything had fallen apart.

 

Steve doesn’t come through. Not in the way Bucky wants or needs. He smiles encouragingly every time Bucky looks to him silently pleading for help. He reaches over a couple of times to still the metal hand when it starts to thump a little too hard against Bucky’s thigh. He looks supportively angry when Bucky haltingly talks about feeling lost and used. But he doesn’t open his mouth once.

 

“You seem reluctant to go into much detail about how you’re feeling,” Doc Samson finally says, after Bucky has wasted 15 minutes shaking in his chair before admitting that it feels like he’s “under water.” “Is there a reason for that?”

 

“Not used to it,” Bucky finally grits out. “Not really used to thinking about how I’m feeling.”

 

“And why aren’t you?” Doc Samson’s voice is even and neutral, and Bucky finds himself imitating the tone back, more out of desperation than anything else.

 

“They watch for feelings,” Bucky hears himself saying. “Once they’ve seen them they don’t let you keep them.”

 

He promptly throws up into a waste basket as soon as the words are out, and Steve finally opens his mouth to suggest that maybe they ought to wrap it up for the day.

 

“Well I can certainly help with getting you a psychiatric assessment, which I imagine your lawyer will need. Obviously we’ll have to meet more often before I can come to a proper diagnosis, though,” Doc Samson says finally, once they’ve coaxed Bucky back to making vague eye contact. “I think it’s safe to say drug treatment is out of the question. Elephant tranquilizers are about the only thing that work for the Hulk, and I can’t imagine how pointless it would be to try to treat you with anything, given how fast you would metabolize it. I think we can come up with some exercises and coping techniques that would help you a lot though.”

 

“So I’m not hopeless?” Bucky mutters, faint surprise sneaking into his voice despite himself.  Samson is of course a professional and not likely to just tell them to give up (not for a few months at least), but the possibility of feeling normal again after decades of _this_ is unexpected, to say the least.

 

“I’ve seen worse,” Doc Samson says, and even Steve gives him a disbelieving look at that.

 

“No, really,” Samson says. “Frankly you’re far more lucid than I was expecting you to be, although I think we can safely say you have a severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

 

At the blank look from Bucky, he quickly clarifies,

 

“Shell shock. War fatigue. It’s quite common in people who have been through traumas and not to worry, it’s _not_ the black mark against a person’s character that it was considered several decades ago. It’s just the mind’s natural way of working through severe distress. I’m also quite pleased to see you aren’t exhibiting noticeable dissociative episodes. You have a much better handle on your triggers than I would have thought possible.”

 

“What does all of this mean for him from a legal standpoint?” Steve asks.

 

“Oh I wouldn’t want to say,” Doc Samson hedges. “I think that’s probably best left for your lawyer to evaluate. Have you been to see her yet?”

 

“As soon as we’re done here,” Steve says.

 

“Well try not to overdo it,” Samson says, directly to Bucky. “There’s no point in getting too overwhelmed when everything is still so chaotic. But I’ve worked with Jennifer before for other cases she’s had. I really think you’re going to like her.”

 

***

 

By the time they leave Jennifer Walter’s office, Bucky privately decides that “like her” doesn’t quite cover it. He hasn’t been so gone over a girl since he saw Jean Harlow in _The Libeled Lady_ at the Paramount. (Jean Harlow died young from Scarlet Fever. Bucky can’t remember his old apartment or his mother’s face, but he can remember the death of a random actress he’d only seen half a dozen times on screen. He wants to be annoyed by that but can’t quite manage it. Scarlet Fever is not to be taken lightly. He wishes he could remember why.) Harlow on screen was small and blonde and aggressive, prone to outbursts of violence. He’d had a time hiding his response from that night’s date. Steve had smirked the whole way home, despite getting the cold shoulder from his own girl. Like he knew just what Bucky was hiding, and something more besides.

 

But if Bucky can’t stop thinking about Jean Harlow and nights long past when he leaves the office, he’s certainly not thinking about her when he walks in. Jean Harlow was a tigress, and Jennifer Walters is a mouse. It’s not that she’s unattractive (she isn’t, even in clothes that dwarf her small frame), or unintelligent. It’s more that she, like her outfit, doesn’t fit. She reminds him of a little girl playing dress up, so much so that when she asks them to call her Jen, it doesn’t feel awkward or rude.

 

“This won’t see the inside of a courtroom,” she says, a little shakily as she fumbles with her papers. “No one is going to want that. Well, maybe some victim families, but no one else.”

 

“Why wouldn’t they want that?” Steve asks, a little doubtfully. “ _I_ don’t want that, but won’t there be a lot of pressure to make the victims happy?”

 

“Well, yes. I suppose,” Jen trips over her words, eyes widening. “Y-yes, of course they’ll want justice, and they’ll have their own ideas of what that needs to look like, but it’s not just the victims who are going to be, um, pressuring.”

 

She drops her papers again and winces in defeat before leaving them strewn on the ground around her.

 

“If this goes to trial, it will be very, very expensive. It may likely have international ramifications, because many other countries will need to prosecute Sergeant Barnes once America has decided to act on it. This could easily be the biggest criminal trial of all time, but…”

 

She fidgets a little and finally gives up, diving under her desk to pull up the papers. Bucky hears her voice but can’t see a thing. Even her desk and chair are too big for her.

 

“The thing is that Mr. Barnes isn’t a war criminal. He’s a war _hero_ , and he was being held prisoner. It’s not a straightforward case, and the idea of investing that much time and money into a trial when you’re not even dealing with the person in charge is alarming.”

 

“So Bucky’s going to go free because governments are cheap?” Steve asks, still disbelieving.

 

Jen gives them a weak smile as she climbs back into her chair. Bucky sighs.

 

“She thinks they’re going to lock me up without a trial at all,” he says.

 

“They might be thinking about it,” Jen says more to her recovered notes than to them. “But I actually think I can scare them into getting you a better deal.”

 

“ _You’re_ going to scare them?” Steve asks and flinches a little, like he hadn’t meant to sound quite so disbelieving.

 

“I can be persuasive,” Jen promises. “I promise I’m normally a very imposing presence. I just… had a late night last night. There was an emergency.”

 

“Sure you’re not just scared of _me_?” Bucky asks before he can help himself. “It wouldn’t be your fault if you were.”

 

“Bucky,” Steve starts, a little exasperated and a lot concerned, but Jen only laughs.

 

“If you were scaring me, you’d know. Or maybe not. I’m a lot better at controlling myself then other people I could name.”

 

Bucky doesn’t really understand what she means by that, because she looks scared (or maybe uncomfortable?) right now, but doesn’t say anything.

 

“Don’t worry, Sergeant Barnes,” She says, softly. “I’m very confident we’ll be able to get full immunity for you. I doubt there’s a prison that could hold you, and I assure you I’m not the only one who’s figured that out. We can work the system, and the system will be happier if we do.”

 

“How exactly is that possible?” Steve asks.

 

“All we really need to do is demonstrate to enough people and agencies that Sergeant Barnes is willing to cooperate, that he wasn’t in control of his actions at the time of his crimes, and that he’s not a threat now. We need to give just enough to make everyone feel safe about Sergeant Barnes walking free, and the easiest way to do that is to make people believe that he’s on their side. Or maybe just Captain America’s side.”

 

It would be more convincing if she didn’t roll away from the desk as she talked. She has to push with her arms to propel herself, because her feet aren’t even touching the floor. 

 

“It’s all going to take time, though. A lot of this is going to be a waiting game,” she tells them, like she can’t see the disbelief on their faces. “Like they say, the wheels of justice grind slowly, and when those wheels get mired down in bureaucracy, they practically move at a standstill. I’ve already been in contact with some of Stark’s lawyers, and we’re beginning the process of making deals with the appropriate parties. At some point I imagine you’ll need to testify before Congress. They have a subcommittee they created after New York, to come up with ways to accommodate and govern all the ‘super-powered’ people who started turning up in America. They’ll be as important to win over as the authorities, I think, especially now that the World Security Council is in shambles. They often lean quite heavily on prosecutors who will be trying to decide whether it’s worth anyone’s while to press charges. And that’s only in _this_ country. Basically, we have years of government in-fighting before any decision can be reached.”

 

“You really think this is as easy as distracting them?” Steve asks. “Have you arranged something like this before?”

 

“Well, yes,” she says, entirely awkward again, like she hasn’t gotten the hang of bragging. “This is sort of my specialty. It has to be, since I’ve been my own guinea pig. Didn’t – didn’t Bruce explain?”

 

“I feel like he may have left something out,” Steve says, looking just as puzzled. “You’ve been in trouble with the law?”

 

“It’s complicated,” Jen allows. “And will probably make more sense if I just show you.”

 

She stands to her feet and pushes back her chair.

 

“Now,” she says, fairly cheerfully. “The important thing for you to remember is to remain calm. Everything about to happen is perfectly normal, I promise you.”

 

Bucky can see Steve gearing up to ask for clarification again, but then he looks back to his lawyer and interrupts with,

 

“Holy shit!”

 

“ _Oh_ ,” is all Steve manages to get out.

 

Jen Walters is becoming much greener and much larger at an unbelievably rapid rate.

 

“Yeah Bruce forgot to mention that,” Steve finally says once the change seems to have stopped.

 

“He thinks it’s funny,” says Jen, her voice now booming out to fill the room as she placidly straightens out her blazer. “I bet he didn’t mention that we’re cousins, either. Not that this is a genetic condition. It’s sort of a long story.”

 

The words feel completely different when they leave her mouth now: relaxed and commanding instead of halting and self-conscious. Her confidence seems to have increased with her size, along with her grace. It’s still easy to think of her by her first name, but not because of any childlike trait. Now it just seems unwise to speak out against anything she tells them to do. She seems comfortable for the first time since they walked into the office. She’s also beautiful, no matter how strange it feels to admit that when she’s basically turned into a titan.

 

“Was she wearing _your_ clothes?” Bucky asks, still sort of in shock.

 

“No,” she says, patiently. “I was wearing _my_ clothes. I tend to prefer to go green though, so I don’t have a lot to dress the other body in. The boring me is more of a courtesy I extend when I meet new clients. You get fewer runners this way.”

 

“I have to say, you are _much_ more articulate than the Hulk,” Steve says carefully.

 

“Well, that doesn’t take much, although I understand he’s getting better,” says Jen as she settles back in her chair. “But you see, the thing about living in a world with people who have impossible powers and abilities, is that everyone has a different degree of control over those abilities. Now, for various reasons, I have much more control of this body than Bruce has of his – in fact, I’m much happier in this body than my original one. We need to prove that Sergeant Barnes has gone from having less control over his actions than Bruce has as the Hulk, to having at least as much as I do, now that he’s gotten away from HYDRA and their atrocious human rights violations.”

 

She smiles at him kindly.

 

“Essentially we need to stress that even though his body and mind have undergone changes against his will, now that he’s removed and healing from that trauma, he’s still the same man who fought with the Howling Commandos in the war. He is someone America – and the whole world – can depend on to do the right thing.”

 

“What about the murders I committed on my own?” Bucky asks, quietly. “You can’t really justify something like that.”

 

“I have a few ideas,” Jen says, reassuringly. “We can’t prove that you acted within the law, but I think we can make some pretty compelling arguments about how you were attempting to protect the public within the very limited parameters you were given.”

 

Bucky opens his mouth to argue, so she just holds up her hand for silence. He obeys immediately, thinking about Jean Harlow and tiny blonds with big personalities too large for their weak frames. Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky sees Steve looking at him, smiling a familiar knowing smile. He looks away and focuses on not letting himself blush, feeling like it’s something a killing machine probably shouldn’t do.

 

“Let me worry about it,” Jen says, firmly. “I need to make some phone calls before I can discuss this with you in any detail, but it’s hardly going to be the first thing people want to talk to you about. I have this under control. While I’m getting everything sorted out, the only thing I need you to focus on is getting in to see a doctor for a full medical examination and a brain scan, preferably in the presence of a celebrated neurologist. Considering who you’re living with in that tower, I don’t think it should be too hard to find someone who owes someone else a favour.”

 

Steve nods dutifully and even writes something down on a piece of paper to make sure he remembers. He’s too busy to look over and see the expression Bucky knows is on his face. Suddenly he’s wishing he ran as soon as he hauled Steve out of the Potomac, like his instincts had told him to. He’ll do a lot for Steve, but he’s not sure he can do this.

 

***

 

They were still unpacking when Steve first told him, pulled him to the side and looked at him with almost overwhelming sincerity.

 

“If you ever need anything, come and ask okay? It doesn’t matter if it’s the middle of the night and we’re set up in different rooms, or anything. I want you to be able to talk to me when you need to. I won’t mind.”

 

Since then Steve has repeated himself so often Bucky’s lost count. Even so, he isn’t sure this is exactly what Steve had in mind. Steve was waiting for an emergency or emotional breakdown maybe, or remembering important information.

 

He couldn’t have meant something like this, Bucky tells himself as he stands in Steve’s room at three o’clock in the morning looking at the man’s prone form in front of him. There is no way he would have wanted Bucky to bother him with this. He shakes Steve’s shoulder anyway.

 

Steve sits up instantly, like he’d never been asleep at all. He’s tensed for a fight, and mechanically Bucky does the same, backing up a little to get space between them. Then Steve seems to realize what’s going on, because he relaxes a little and runs a hand over his face. His voice is still wary when he asks,

 

“Bucky? What’s going on? Is something wrong?”

 

“Do you still love me?” Bucky asks. “The way you did before, I mean.”

 

Steve is silent for a long time before he slides up to rest his back against the headboard, shuffling over to make room for another body.

 

“Come here,” he says, patting the space beside him. “Sit with me.”

 

Bucky does, a little reluctantly. He’s not in this room for physical comfort, he only wants an answer. It occurs to him that maybe he’s not the one who needs the comfort if they’re going to have this conversation, so he sighs a little and does as he’s told.

 

Once they’re settled Steve is quiet for a very long time before he finally says,

 

“Yes.”

 

Bucky nods, trying to decide how he feels about that.

 

“You’re making a mistake,” he finally says.

 

“It’s not exactly a choice,” Steve says.

 

Bucky tries again,

 

“You should find someone else, Steve, not me. This isn’t right. I won’t – I can’t love you back like that, you know?”

 

“Why?” Steve asks.

 

“Because I can’t,” Bucky insists. “I remember more now, Steve. I’m not the same person I was when we met or even when we were together. So much has changed. I can’t be that person anymore.”

 

“I know,” Steve says. “I don’t expect you to be.”

 

“No?” Bucky asks, staring hard at his metal hand instead of Steve.

 

“No,” Steve echoes. “I mean, I can’t be the person you knew before the war, either. That’s not the way life works. We’re always changing Bucky, even without serums.”

 

“You deserve more than what I have to offer,” Bucky tries, but it sounds weak to his own ears.

 

“I deserve what will make me happy, I think,” Steve says. “You make me happy. You always have. But if you don’t feel the same way you used to, that’s okay, too. I won’t lose you again, Bucky, and I’m always going to love you this way, but if you need me to be a little less, I can be that. For you.”

 

His voice has gotten a little choked by the end, so Bucky doesn’t say anything. Tries to give Steve a chance to get himself back together. After a few minutes, it seems to have worked so he says,

 

“You wouldn’t hate me if I didn’t love you back?”

 

“I could never hate you,” Steve says, stubbornly. Bucky doesn’t have to look to know the exact way Steve is gritting his jaw, like he’s getting ready to fight if someone tries to change his mind.

 

“I could never hate you either,” Bucky admits, squirming a little. “I’ve tried – when you were my mission. I wasn’t supposed to feel anything but I thought hate would get me into less trouble than trusting you. I couldn’t do it then, and I can’t do it now.”

 

“But you’re not in love with me,” Steve says. It’s not even phrased like a question, and it sounds like he isn’t getting enough air when he says it.

 

Bucky might not be able to hate Steve, but he hates that sound coming from him. If feels familiar and awful and terrifying. It makes him want to leave the room and the half-formed memories behind, but he can’t leave Steve like this. He can’t leave Steve here barely breathing.

 

“I don’t know if I’m in love with you or not,” he admits. “I don’t – I don’t remember. What that‘s supposed to feel like. It’s hard remembering what was good when everything else keeps crowding it out.”

 

“Okay,” Steve says, rubbing Bucky’s arm softly, and he sounds even worse now.

 

Bucky doesn’t know what to do.

 

“Sorry,” he mumbles.

 

“Bucky,” Steve says, firmly. “It’s okay. Really. Look, I’ll tell you what. You keep doing what you’ve been doing for me, okay? Keep trying to remember, keep focusing your energy on feeling better and more like yourself – whoever that is now. Once you’ve remembered everything you need to remember, including love and how the good things feel, let me know. Don’t decide anything about us until you know.”

 

“You don’t mind waiting?” Bucky asks, hesitantly.

 

“Of course not,” Steve says. “I don’t care if you never remember at all.”

 

He falters a little before correcting himself.

 

“Or, I guess I’ll care if you never get any better than you are right now, but I _don’t_ care if we never move past where we are right now. I just want you to feel okay again.”

 

Bucky has nothing to say to that, so he stays quiet and doesn’t move from where he is. Now that he’s here, the warmth coming off of Steve’s body is nice. Steve must think it’s okay, too because he doesn’t move either.

 

Bucky would be happy to spend the rest of the night just the way they are now, but after a very long time, Steve says,

 

“Have you been worrying about this all night?”

 

“No,” Bucky says, staring up at the dark ceiling. “I think about a lot of things at night. Whatever keeps me awake.”

 

He’d started out thinking about what Jen told them about experts and neurologists. Everyone always want him to go see doctors. They won’t be like Doc Samson, Steve says. They want to see how his body is running and look for scars on his brain. They aren’t going to be happy with just talking, are actually going to touch his body and look at his brain and make him lie down on a table. Steve promises everything will be alright, and Bucky is trying to believe him, but. Sleeping is hard right now, and talking about this is better than talking about anything else currently making his heart race.

 

“You need to sleep, Buck,” Steve says, gently. “It’s important.”

 

“So is keeping everyone safe,” Bucky says.

 

He’s not used to letting his guard down unless he’s inside the cryogenic chamber and someone is making the decision for him. He’s not used to dreaming, to remembering too many memories at the same time and trying to sort through them when his brain chops them up into pieces and sews them back together like Frankenstein’s monster. It makes his mind feel as vulnerable as his body and he can’t deal with that right now.

 

“Just lie down,” Steve pleads, worming his hand behind Bucky to rub his back. “Right here even, if you want. For me?”

 

“Something could happen,” Bucky says, not sure if he means in his head or in the tower. “It’s not safe.”

 

“Then I’ll stay up for a while,” Steve says. “Just like the war. Do you remember that? How we all had each other’s backs?”

 

Bucky’s not sure he does, but it feels familiar. It fits with his broken memories of snow and men who laughed around campfires and helped each other feel lighter inside, even when they were surrounded by death.

 

“Four on, four off?” He suggests, trying not to sound too hopeful. “And you’ll wake me up if something happens?”

 

He doesn’t say,

 

“Please stop me if I dream again.”

 

He knows somehow that he doesn’t need to say it out loud for Steve to hear.

 

“Sounds good,” Steve says, not even trying to hide his own relief. “I’ll take first watch.”

 

Bucky nods, and slowly eases his body down onto the bed. It takes almost an hour but finally he feels his body relax enough to let sleep win out, and thinks he might hear Steve make a pleased sound just before he drifts off.

 

***

 

_He watches numbly as they cut into the gangrenous flesh of his bicep, at the clinical way they hack into the muscle of the arm, and saw into bone. He’s still so cold, but he can smell burning, cooking meat. He wants to be sick, but he just sits and stares. Watches like it doesn’t hurt. Like he isn’t afraid._

_There’s a doctor watching in the far corner of the room, almost out of his line of vision. He stands out in his white coat and no surgical mask or gloves. He shifts slightly so they are staring at each other directly, and the look on the Doctor’s face is one of disgust. Every now and then he gesticulates angrily and talks to someone as though they are standing next to him, like he’s having a conversation with the air. He looks like he stepped forward in time, like he walked out of the past. Something about him seems familiar, but he can’t find a name for him._

_“Look at that,” the doctor says gesturing angrily in his direction. “That is wrong. We serve the public to help the less fortunate. We want to make people better. Nothing about this is better.”_

_(There’s commotion from the surgeons now, and he hears the soft, pulpy sound of something wet and heavy hitting a metal basin. He feels lighter and there’s blood in the air, so he grits his teeth and strains harder to hear the man across the room.)_

_“Someone needs to put a stop to this,” says the doctor. “Someone needs to help, and I don’t mind being that person. It’s not about fighting someone else’s battle. It’s about doing the right thing.”_

_“Shouldn’t talk like that when he can hear you,” he mutters back. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but he knows what to say. “What’ll we do if he starts listening? Tries to save the world in that body?”_

_“I don’t want to hurt you,” the doctor says, like they aren’t even in a room where he’s being taken apart piece-by-piece. “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I want to help.”_

_Someone next to his chair slaps his face suddenly, hard. He feels warm moisture on his cheek and the smell of blood is stronger. He thinks he might be wearing himself like war paint and isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or scream._

_“Who is that?” he asks instead, nodding towards the corner of the room holding the familiar man. “Who am I?”_

_“There’s no one,” comes the answer in harsh, accented English. “And you are who we say. No daydreaming. We need you here. You tell us when the pain changes. If it stops. Whatever happens, the pain can’t stop. The nerves need to be functioning and without the pain there’s no point in keeping you. Understand?”_

_“You need to make it hurt?” he asks raggedly, struggling to focus. His arm feels even stranger now. When he looks down there’s nothing but a bloody stump, with muscles and tendons hanging down, swaying gently. He can feel the air on them, but he must be wrong, because the arm itself is telling him that it’s still there. It hurts like knives are still cutting it to pieces and rough hands are still snapping the bones._

_He looks back to the corner. It’s empty and dark again, and he wonders if he’s losing his mind. He wants someone but he doesn’t know who. He wants to go_ home _, but he doesn’t know where that is._

_The surgeons keep scrambling about him like angry wasps, and now they are carrying something towards him. (A new arm, disturbing and robotic. He’s not sure he wants it, but maybe he did, before he forgot everything. Maybe he agreed to this.) He stares into the faces of angry surgeons as they wrench around what’s left of his arm and hold his body down to keep it in place. He doesn’t look at their work again, even when the pain pushes past the foggy haze and he starts to scream. The pain is endless, but he almost remembers the feeling of hands gently holding his arm and delicately rotating it, looking for ways to make the hurting stop._

_It feels like it takes years before he hears the voice from somewhere outside, calling his name. Telling him to wake up._

 

***

 

Both Bruce and Tony spend a lot of time telling him that he doesn’t have to go to the doctor alone. That not only can Steve or Sam or Natalia go along and stay with him the entire time to keep an eye out for threats, but one of the two scientists would be happy to go into the examination itself and make sure no one tries to inject him with anything or tamper with his brain.

 

“We can personally vet everyone who looks at any of your medical records,” Tony says. “We can take everything they want to put into your body and analyse it at our labs before letting it happen. But something has to happen. My lawyers are crying, Bucky. You’re making my hardened, jaded legal experts cry.”

 

Bruce tries to be a little more soothing.

 

“I completely understand not wanting to become somebody’s experiment,” he says. “I’ve spent a long time trying to avoid the same thing myself, but we’re all worried about you. We don’t know what sort of damage they did to you, James, and we really need to find those answers.”

 

In all honesty, Bucky isn’t sure he trusts either of them well enough for any of this to be a comfort. He likes Bruce and Tony, sure, even if he doesn’t understand why they like him. But does he trust them? Apart from Steve and maybe Natalia, Bucky can’t be certain he trusts anyone with his body (his mind). He can’t even stay in the same room as Sam, who he knows won’t hurt him as punishment, without mentally planning escape routes in case the other man decides to start hurting him to help or improve him. (He remembers Pierce and the others before him, telling him he was being made better and staring at him like they were expecting gratitude for turning his brain and will into Swiss cheese.) If he can’t even trust someone like Sam with his memories, how can he trust two scientists like Bruce and Tony to be uninterested enough to shut things down if someone starts changing things?

 

You don’t mind Doc Samson so much anymore,” Steve points out, after Tony has stormed off in a frustrated huff.

 

“That’s different,” Bucky says, although he’s not sure how. Maybe it’s because he can see the ways Doc is helping him. He doesn’t feel like passing out at the title “doctor” for one thing. The fact that he feels himself regaining pieces of control every time they talk helps a lot more than Bucky wants to admit, too.

 

“You never used to be so opposed to doctors,” Steve comments.

 

“No, that was your gimmick,” says Bucky. “So sick you could barely stand, and you’d still yell at me when I had someone go find Dr. Bowers.”

 

“I wish he was still around,” Steve says quietly. “I bet you’d let him help.”

 

“I think my problems passed Dr. Bowers’ abilities right around the first time Zola strapped me down to a table,” Bucky says.

 

He’s not even sure it’s true. His memories of Dr. Bowers are so muddled and always caught under a blanket of worry for Steve, he doesn’t know if he trusted the man or not. He doesn’t remember enough of who Dr. Bowers _was_.

 

“I’d take what I could get,” Steve says. There’s a pause before he adds. “He helped me a lot, remember? I’d have been dead a few times if he wasn’t around, ready to help. That’s all we want to do now, Bucky. All any of us want to do is help you.”

 

“I don’t need help,” Bucky says.

 

“They can’t defend you if they can’t prove that this type of brainwashing is physically possible,” Steve says. “They need to see what was done for that to happen.”

 

“Steve enough,” Bucky says, tiredly. “Please.”

 

Steve stands and turns to go to the bedroom but before he leaves he tries again.

 

“It’s okay to be afraid. It’s okay to let someone else look after you sometimes, too.”

 

***

 

_A hand reaches out to lightly grab his shoulder as he goes back into the bedroom with fresh water. Bucky works very, very hard to supress his shudder and manages to keep from spilling anything. Barely._

_“Yes sir?” He asks, looking up to the doctor and trying his damndest to look trustworthy and law-abiding and clean-cut and patriotic and just about anything else he can think to convince this man that they are worth the hassle._

_“I know that you’re really worried about your friend,” Dr. Bowers says, looking awkward and worried. “But are_ you _alright?”_

_“I’m a little tired,” Bucky says, honest and bewildered._

_The doctor’s lips twitch into a small smile._

_“No,” he says. “I mean do you have any injuries.”_

_“Um,” Bucky says. He glances down at his arm. “I guess I scraped my arm up a little reaching under the floorboards.”_

_Dr. Bowers plucks the bowl and fresh cloths out of Bucky’s hands and takes them into Steve’s room. He’s back before Bucky can think to follow him, carefully taking hold of Bucky’s left arm and turning it up slightly. A red and swollen line runs from his wrist to his elbow, hot and aching. In one spot the swollen skin is rubbed raw and bleeding, but mostly it’s just sort of oozing clear liquid, glistening and uncomfortable as it tries and fails to sew itself back together. Dr. Bowers leads him by the arm into the kitchen and cleans it there in the strengthening morning light._

_“I don’t think it’s infected,” he says after a few minutes. “But I’ll wrap it in some gauze for you and you should double check it if it really starts to burn. Look for the swelling and redness to get worse, and if you see any red lines coming out of it, you need to find me right away.”_

_He looks at Bucky sharply._

_“Is there anything else?” He asks._

_“Else?” Bucky repeats, dumbly. He just wants to get back to Steve. He doesn’t want Steve to notice he’s not there._

_Dr. Bowers picks up a roll of gauze and quickly starts to wrap the worst of Bucky’s forearm._

_“Did anyone touch you?”_

_“If anyone touched me I’d look a lot more like Steve.”_

_“That’s not what I meant,” Dr. Bowers says, fairly calm in the face of Bucky’s caginess._

_“Has anyone forced themselves on you? Are you hurt anywhere else?”_

_“No one hurt me,” Bucky repeats firmly._

_Dr. Bowers looks at him shrewdly, like he knows how hard Bucky is trying to avoid both lies and truth at the same time. He doesn’t say anything though, and after a couple minutes he just pats Bucky’s freshly wrapped arm and says,_

_“Go be with your friend, James.”_

_Bucky doesn’t respond, just walks out of the room as quickly as possible without looking back._

***

 

Steve doesn’t question Bucky when he climbs out of what seems to have become “their” bed and tells him to make sure the doctor they pick is a good one. Bucky doesn’t bother to explain himself, either. He only grits his teeth and reminds himself that sometimes good people help fix bad things as Steve finishes pulling on his shirt and grins at him like he hangs the moon.

 

***

 

Pepper finds the doctor in the end, after a methodical, pain-staking search for someone with experience working around PTSD and phobias. She has a well-organized counter-argument for every one of Bucky’s protests, which is impressive, since he doesn’t vocalize any of them. He thinks her mind must work like JARVIS and the robots from Steve’s old science fiction stories: carefully mapping out every possible response and preparing for all of them. It reminds him of himself once he’s been given a mission, and for some reason it makes him feel a little better. He still can’t shake the feeling that something bad will happen to him, but knowing that someone is preparing to pick up the pieces is better than everyone insisting there’s nothing to worry about. He agrees in the end, when there is nothing else for him to do in the face of her logic, but only if Steve comes with him. (Bucky wouldn’t even walk through the front door without Steve.)

 

“It’ll be okay,” Steve smiles, carefully. Bucky can see his mind working, trying to make sure he doesn’t say anything to make Bucky change his mind.

 

Bucky doesn’t say he believes it. He just sits quietly in his chair and desperately tries to remember Dr. Bowers while attempting to forget Zola and the rest.

 

Dr. Cohen is extremely tactful and straightforward, and talks to Bucky like his input matters. Like he has value. She never touches him without his permission. She is small and so slight that Bucky instantly starts worrying about how he might hurt her if he needs to get away. She makes him think of the lab assistant he killed in Queens decades ago. He still doesn’t remember much about her, but he wonders if she tried to treat him like he mattered, too. He wonders if he liked her before he shot her in the head, or if he was even capable of it at the time.

 

Parts of the examination go better than the others. His eye test isn’t a problem, and the stethoscope isn’t too bad either, once she’s handed it to him so he can look it over before she uses it. Checking his blood pressure is a lost cause, though, and he throws up again when she tries to use the tongue depressor. He doesn’t even let Steve touch him after that, and he stands out in the hall for what feels like hours before he allows himself be coaxed back into the room.

 

They wait to do the brain scan until the end of the examination.

 

(“Just a CAT/PET scan combo,” Dr. Cohen assures. “With that arm, we need to keep you far away from MRIs.”)

 

There are several more people in the new room they’re led to, and Steve and Dr. Cohen both seem to know everyone there. Bucky doesn’t know which one is the neurologist and tries to keep it that way. There’s less chance he’ll attack an innocent person who just wants to help if he doesn’t know who he should be targeting. He lies on the table and stares upward, ignoring the instructions to “relax if you can” as he grits his teeth and machinery comes to life all around him.

 

“You can close your eyes if that will help,” a technician (maybe) says, awkwardly, like he already knows he can’t do anything to make this easier.

 

Bucky keeps his eyes open, sometimes making noises like he’s in pain when the machine gets louder. Steve’s voice is talking to him, but it’s hard to understand what he’s saying, because of the noise or maybe because of nerves. It feels like he lies there for hours. He’s not sure when he starts crying, but by the time the table is sliding backwards, his face is wet with tears and his entire body is locked into position. He can’t move at all, but suddenly Steve is there and everything gets a little easier. His hands wipe at Bucky’s cheeks, brush through his hair, and rub at his jaw. The neurologist, technicians, and even Dr. Cohen are nowhere to be seen. Bucky doesn’t know if he likes that or not.

 

“You’re gonna break your teeth,” Steve murmurs. “It’s okay, Bucky. It’s over. Nothing happened. You know who you are?”

 

Bucky forces out a sharp nod and Steve frowns a little, looking at his rigid body.

 

“Breathe for me, Buck,” he says softly. “You need to breathe.”

 

Bucky only lets out a strangled noise as he tries to obey and only manages a pathetic gasping noise instead. He almost spasms off the table when a hand touches his chest but he recognizes the pattern it starts to make instantly. He laughs a little and pretends not to notice when it comes out more like a sob. It feels good, like somebody cares. If he could close his eyes right now it wouldn’t take much to imagine a frail young Steve beside him, forcing him to focus on something besides his own failure.

 

“You remember,” Steve says, smiling as he says it. It’s not a question.

 

“Still don’t know why you always end up being the one who looks out for me,” Bucky manages. “That’s not supposed to be how it works.”

 

“We take turns,” Steve says. “That’s absolutely how it’s supposed to be.”

 

***

 

Jen makes arrangements with the NYPD to take Bucky to the precinct to be processed a few days later. Steve and Tony go with them along with a swarm of lawyers and paparazzi. (Tony says the extra lawyers are “just in case” and Steve says the paparazzi are because “Tony.”)

 

Jen reassures them that turning himself in is largely symbolic, so America can see that the government is taking “the threat of homegrown terrorism” seriously.

 

“No one wants to test their security on you,” she promises. “I wasn’t kidding earlier – not even Guantanamo could properly contain you, no matter how much certain politicians would love to put you there.”

 

Steve starts to explain what Guantanamo is but Bucky stops him. There might be a lot of things he’s missed while he worked for HYDRA, but the key locations of international terrorists haven’t been among them.

 

“So what will they do to me?” He asks as they get in the elevator.

 

“They’re going to release you into Cap’s and my custody,” Tony says brightly. “After I pay your bail, of course, and on condition that I keep you here in the tower.”

 

He shrugs.

 

“I may have shown them pictures of Bruce’s Hulk-proof room before it was decorated, and there’s a chance that one of the closets looked especially jail-celly before I got around to installing the chandelier and wet bar.”

 

“So they’re just going to let me do what I want because everyone is afraid of me?” Bucky asks, frowning.

 

“It wouldn’t be the worst thing if that were the case,” Jen says. “But no. We’ll need to take some trips to D.C. again to take your case before the proper authorities. With Doc Samson’s assessment combined with the specialists who looked at your brain, it should prove that you aren’t a threat to the public, now that HYDRA can’t run anymore procedures on you. There’s a chance we may have to testify to the ICC, and at the very least we’ll probably have to chat with the UN, just to make sure no one tries to extradite you for international trials. But that won’t be for months, and to be frank, if you’re useful enough in helping us take down HYDRA in the meantime, there’s a chance no one will bother.”

 

“Why are you working so hard to help me walk away from this?” Bucky asks, a little hopelessly, as Happy meets them in the garage and herds them into a nondescript car that will fool absolutely no one. “I hurt people. They should get a chance to see some justice.”

 

“Punishing another victim is hardly justice Bucky,” Steve says, shortly, like if he wants to tell Bucky to stop bringing it up but has been given strict instructions from someone (named Samson) to not shut him down when he says what he’s thinking. “People are still trying to untangle everything that happened to you from what’s been found in that massive information dump Natasha put online, and from the paper records that are slowly being found around the world. No one is going to feel better for sticking you in one prison once they figure out you’ve been trapped and tortured inside of another for decades.”

 

“What he said,” Tony butts in. “And consider that this is coming from one of the people you hurt. I mean shit, you killed my parents and I’m paying your bail. That’s got to say something to you _and_ the world at large, right?”

 

“What is that supposed to say to me?” Bucky asks, honestly at a loss, just like he has been ever since Tony volunteered. “I don’t even know why you like me.”

 

“Well since this is apparently Honesty Hour,” Tony says. “I’m really not sure that I do. Like you, I mean. You killed my parents, dude. That’s sort of not cool, you know? But I _am_ a genius, so I can figure out that you didn’t have much to do with it, in the end. I mean, I am _easily_ the smartest person in this car – no offense, Walters – and even if I weren’t, it’s not a huge leap to figure out that you can’t possibly be this good an actor. You are a downer and twitchy and damaged and most of the time Steve or Sam lure you into the common areas for human interaction, you stand in corners as you obviously stew over every bad thing you’ve ever done. Guilty people don’t do that unless someone forces them to, but abused people do. Scapegoats who’ve been manipulated into believing what the bad guys are selling do. I want _someone_ to pay for what happened to my mom and dad, but if the person who pays is _you_ , I’ll just end up feeling worse than I did before.”

 

Bucky’s face must give away the disbelief he feels at Tony’s words, because the other man makes a noise of disgust before angrily getting out his phone to call his friend (Rhodey?) about yet another development in his fantasy football league. Bucky really needs to find out what that means.

 

***

 

The others are right, of course. Bucky doesn’t even see the inside of a jail cell before they’re leaving the way they came in, keeping out of Tony’s way as he leads the press around so effectively they could be an act in Barnum and Bailey’s. The only hiccup in the entire operation is the processing officer’s minor breakdown over the state of his left-hand’s fingerprints:

 

“What do you mean, ‘Treat it like a normal prosthetic,’ Andy? Does it _look_ like a normal prosthetic to you?”

 

Bucky’s comment that he never left fingerprints at crime scenes anyhow had ended the 15 minute argument, but somehow didn’t have the desired effect of making the officer any happier.

 

“I wasn’t trying to threaten anyone,” he protests weakly as they get back into the car, ignoring the flashbulbs going off around them.

 

“I know,” Steve says consolingly. “You’ll get used to talking to people again, don’t worry.”

 

“But maybe don’t get used to talking to _those_ people,” Jen suggests. “Unless _we’ve_ talked about it first. In detail.”

 

“No more small talk?” Bucky says, carefully.

 

“Small talk is easily misinterpreted by small minds,” Jen says smoothly, as the door opens again and Tony climbs in.

 

“Oh gross, who’s making small talk?” He demands. “Is it you, Rogers? You’re such an old woman, I bet you love talking about the weather and public transit schedules. Well that sucks for you, because I have a firm Zero Small Talk policy that extends to a ten foot radius around my person at all times. I’ve got a delicate nature and I will throw you right out of this car if I hear it.”

 

***

 

There’s a big meeting again a few weeks after the day of doctor’s appointments. Jen, Steve, Bucky, and all the doctors are there. A few days earlier there was a second meeting with the neurologist for more CT and PET scanning. Somehow, it went even worse than the first time, even though Steve kept Bucky so far away from the actual details he still didn’t know the gender of his latest doctor until he walked into Jen’s office for this meeting.

 

Steve had simply told him, “No more” after the final scan, and Bucky believes him (Steve keeps his promises, even when it takes decades), but he’s still a little unimpressed that he has to talk to these people at all. To everyone’s credit, there isn’t a doctor’s coat in sight when they arrive. Doc is dressed in his usual semi-casual button down and pressed pants, Dr. Cohen is in a demure-looking navy dress, and Dr. Vernon the neurologist is unbelievably in a t-shirt and jeans. Bucky swears he even sees some paint spatter on the cuffs, like he’s taking a break from painting the house to do this.

 

He has to admit that it _does_ help keep his head on straight, but even so he makes sure he’s sitting in the chair closest to the door.

 

“It would be interesting to know what your brain looked like after you first escaped,” Dr. Vernon says, and Bucky locks the muscles in his legs so he can’t get up and run.

 

Dr. Vernon isn’t looking at him like the doctors from his past: greedily, or like he’s a science experiment. He’s only reading from his notes like he’s giving a lecture.

 

“In just a little over a week your progress has been shocking.”

 

“In a good way, right?” Steve asks.

 

Dr. Vernon stares hard at Bucky instead of answering.

 

“You are a very lucky man, I think,” he finally says.

 

Bucky doesn’t particularly agree, but doesn’t say anything.

 

“If your healing rate has been this steady ever since you were re-united with Captain Rogers, the damage to your brain must have been so bad that it’s remarkable that you were able to survive at all, let alone carry out complex tasks.”

 

“But it’s getting better?” Bucky asks, faintly. He needs to be sure about that. “All the damage is going to go away?”

 

Dr. Cohen speaks up now,

 

“From what I’ve seen from the scarring on your body, there may be some long-term damage. You still have the ability to scar, Sergeant Barnes.”

 

“On the other hand,” says Dr. Vernon. “The scar in contact with your prosthesis was the site of a major trauma and a messy, inelegant medical procedure. And from what I understand, you were in stasis for extraordinarily long periods of time. Your body may just not have been given the time to heal itself completely. It’s not unreasonable to at least hope for a full recovery in the long-term.”

 

“This is excellent news from a legal standpoint as well,” Jen pipes up, nodding encouragingly towards Doc.

 

“With the parts of your brain that were targeted,” Doc says, “I don’t think there’s much you would have been capable of doing on your own. The few times you _were_ able to access an old memory or think independently, you couldn’t have possibly displayed proper autonomous decision-making. It would have been more of a glitch in your autopilot than you breaking out of it.”

 

“Of course he wasn’t making his own decisions,” Steve says hotly, like it was absurd to ever think anything else (like he hadn’t been up all night pacing the floor worrying about it).

 

The conversation rolls over Bucky for a while before he suddenly thinks to look to Doc and ask,

 

“Is the scarring what makes me feel like this?”

 

“Like what?” asks Doc.

 

“Empty,” says Bucky. “Underwater.”

 

Doc smiles at him a little sadly before he says,

 

“I don’t think the scar tissue is what’s making that happen, James. But I think you’ll find that, just like with the scarring, it will get better in time.”

 

***

 

“I just don’t like the idea of him sitting there alone as they interrogate him,” Steve says, arms crossed, and he would almost be sulking if his face weren’t so angry. It makes Bucky remember the same expression on a much smaller man, facing off people who towered over him, not caring about the consequences.

 

“It’s okay, Steve,” he says, more because he has to than because he means it. “I have to do this on my own.”

 

He _doesn’t_ know if it willbe okay, has no idea if he’ll be able to sit still and answer question after question like he’s still the mindless soldier. Like he still feels nothing about the things he’s done. But he doesn’t want Steve to fall on his sword for his sake, either. This has to happen, so why let Steve act like he has any say in the matter?

 

“I don’t think you’re ready to talk about all of this,” Steve says, flatly. “You have anxiety attacks when we talk about it here in Jen’s office – how are you going to handle talking about it to a room full of people?”

 

Bucky doesn’t have an answer to that (he has anxiety attacks when he talks to Doc Samson, too, but he’s not about to bring that up). Jen calmly takes over for him.

 

“Doc Samson is going to speak before Bucky even has a chance to walk into the room,” she says. “He’s going to be very clear about Bucky’s limits and why they need to be respected, and he won’t be alone. I’ll be there to speak up anytime someone crosses a line. We’ve given them prepared documents of what we believe is the most important information James has been privy to, and they’ve agreed that at least for now, they won’t push for more. Honestly Steve, I think that’s the best we can hope for at this point.”

 

Steve looks a little happier at that. He likes Doc Samson a lot, and Bucky only wishes he could feel as confident in Doc’s assessment of him (“Not a threat, not responsible.”) as Steve is. Instead he keeps thinking about blood on his hands, and the sobs of dying people in pain, and thinks he doesn’t feel like the victim everyone keeps telling him he is.

 

***

 

_“Tell us about the plans to march on Pordenone.”_

_“James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038.”_

_“Subject still responsive, lucidity is undetermined. Administer another 10ccs.”_

_“James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038.”_

_“How can you even tell he understands what we’re saying? He says it no matter what language we ask him in. He says it when you aren’t even talking to him.”_

_“James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038.”_

_“We work with what we are given, soldier. Be grateful that we have these men at all, or else you would be on the table.”_

_“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”_

_“James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038.”_

_“Besides, you cannot deny that we are making progress. The ones before him never stayed so coherent. By their schedules he should have been reduced to mindless screaming four hours ago.”_

_“James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. 32557038.”_

_“Another 10ccs, soldier. Then it should be just about time to test his pain reflexes again.”_

_“James Buchanan Barnes. Steve. 32557038.”_

_“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure the knives are sterilized.”_

_“Bucky? Bucky!”_

_“James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant. 3255…”_

***

 

He and Jen have already met with several law enforcement agencies before his first meeting with the special subcommittee, a bevy of Tony’s lawyers trailing after them to help keep track of all the paperwork. More than once he sees the frustrated look on an official’s face when an aide tentatively taps his shoulder and tells him not to answer because “that information has been promised to another agency.”

 

He’s not allowed to leave the country (like he’d want to leave the country) and has to be accompanied by an Avenger everywhere he goes, like he’s an especially bad child, but it could be worse. Bucky remembers crying children and bodies that lose both fight and blood as he carries out orders, and remembers that he should be getting worse. He doesn’t mention it to Steve as much as he used to, but Steve obviously hasn’t forgotten, and still gives him little pep talks like he can’t trust Bucky to stay on script. Maybe he’s right.

 

“Please just talk about what we talked about.”

 

Steve says it’s because this is important, that this could set a standard for how all victims of “hostile mind control” are handled from here on out.

 

“They can’t just pretend it’s a one-time thing anymore,” Steve says.

 

“I know, Steve,” Bucky says, not as patiently as he means to. He knows this is Steve being selfish just as much as it is him trying to help others, even if Steve doesn’t seem to notice.

 

“What he’s trying to say,” Clint says, from where he’s flopped over on the couch, waiting to leave with Lucky happily sprawled on his chest (even though he’s getting hair all over Clint’s suit). “Is don’t go in to seek punishment.”

 

(Only Steve and Natalia were supposed to come along today – with Sam waiting at his DC house to act as “clean up detail” if things go too badly and the day ends with three emotionally distraught superheroes. Clint insists he has to come with them for the moral support, though: “Your first day of testifying before congress is like an Avenger’s first school play. They’ll think we’re negligent and judge us if we don’t go watch you perform.”)

 

“Pretend Steve was the one who was mind controlled not you,” Clint suggests, suddenly serious as he looks straight at Bucky. “SHIELD locked me up in a windowless cell for three weeks after it happened to me, until Natasha broke me out. It would be nice if that didn’t become standard operating procedure. Not all of us have Natashas, you know?”

 

Bucky can’t argue with that.

 

***

 

He feels a little less cooperative when the congressmen file in. From his seat next to Jen (and a select few of Tony’s harassed-looking lawyers), he can see Steve, Clint, and Natalia all watching from the visitor’s gallery. Steve looks as nervous as Bucky feels, but when they see him staring, Natalia waves at him and Clint grins wildly and gives him a thumbs up. Bucky almost smiles back at that, but stops when the fourth to last congressman chairing the committee wanders in to take his seat.

 

“Is this a joke?” He hisses at Jen.

 

She looks confused, and a little surprised to see the anger he knows is obvious on his face. He feels a little surprised by it, too. Or at least, by the betrayal that’s accompanying it. Somewhere along the way, he seems to have come to expect better treatment from these people.

 

“What are you talking about?” She asks.

 

“You really want me to testify about HYDRA to HYDRA?”

 

The confusion lingers for a moment and then is replaced by shock.

 

“ _All_ of them?” She whispers, making sure her back is facing as many congressmen as possible before she speaks.

 

“One’s not enough?” Bucky shoots back.

 

“But the information went online,” Jen says. “Everyone was exposed.”

 

“Everyone who dealt with SHIELD’s branch of HYDRA was exposed,” Steve corrects, and Bucky starts. Of course Steve’s super-charged hearing would have picked up on what Bucky was saying to Jen, but he has no idea how he managed to get down to them so quickly. “But the whole point of HYDRA is that they aren’t tied to a single organization. It would make sense that even Pierce might not know about all the heads.”

 

Above them in the gallery Bucky catches a glimpse of Clint and Natalia watching attentively, Clint’s eyes zeroed in on their lips. He doesn’t even think when he subtly changes his position so the man can read what they’re saying easier.

 

“Well we can’t just pretend like we don’t know,” Jen says. “But how on earth are we going to prove anything?”

 

Bucky takes a deep breath and tries to clear his mind. He’s not used to giving himself his own missions, but there’s something soothing that comes with the knowledge that he has to accomplish the task looming before him or suffer the consequences.

 

With more confidence than he feels (he doesn’t _feel_ much of anything right now, can’t think of anything except the endless lists of variables standing between him and his goal), he leaps over the small gate separating the committee leaders from the rest of the room and starts walking towards his target. The others start backing away in growing alarm and confusion. Behind him, Bucky can hear armed guards shouting out warnings before sounds of struggling break out. It turns out his job is actually a lot easier when he’s got people watching his back. It’s a pleasant feeling that tickles at the back of his mind, like maybe he’s felt it before, but Bucky pushes it to the side the second he sees Congressman Stevenson go eerily still and stare him straight in the eye.

 

There’s no time left for finesse so he just leaps onto the bench and grabs the man by the hair _hard_ , hard enough to make him cry out. His hands are in Stevenson’s mouth the second it opens, a metal thumb and forefinger pushing hard between the back molars, forcing the jaw open. He uses his other hand for the actual extraction, because despite the brutality of the act, it _is_ a delicate job, and he can’t risk crushing anything with the bionic fingers as he roots around in the congressman’s mouth. The cries of terror soon become shrieks of pain as he grabs at teeth and starts pulling. (The best way to remove the decoys without breaking them open is to pull out the teeth on either side at the same time, since it’s so firmly affixed to them.)

 

It’s over in less than four seconds, and when Bucky lets himself become aware of his surroundings again, the room is in chaos. People are either stampeding over each other to get away or recording everything with their phones. Screaming fills the air around him, and he can distinctly smell piss coming from Stevenson’s lap, as he cradles his mouth and weeps pitifully. Even with Jen and every Avenger present springing into action to hold off the guards, he’s surrounded by guns, barrels all pointing directly at him.

 

He hears the sound of more backup arriving outside and sits down tiredly on the bench, right next to a pitcher of water.

 

“Sorry,” he mutters, cradling the bloody teeth in his hand. “I think the FBI wanted him turned over to their custody first, but you have to get the teeth out as soon as possible or else they get away.”

 

There’s a long silence before a terrified and angry congressman near the door hysterically shouts,

 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

 

“Plane hijacking?” Bucky says uncertainly. “Look, I agreed to work with you to catch HYDRA, but that means I’m catching _all_ of HYDRA. Even the ones on the government’s payroll.”

 

Behind him, Congressman Stevenson makes a halting motion like he’s trying to crawl out of his chair and slink away, so Bucky reaches back and locks his metal hand around the base of his neck.

 

“Ted’s a secret Nazi plane hijacker?” A congresswoman asks, incredulously, taking several steps back to the bench in curious disbelief. “But he goes golfing with the Secretary of State.”

 

“He’s good at going unnoticed,” Bucky says, calmly. “That’s why he got away with it in the first place. Well, and everyone thinks he died when he jumped out of the plane. They had me pick him up. I had eyes on him the whole time, and HYDRA recruited him after. I’d wondered where they sent him.”

 

“You can’t just rip out people’s teeth without asking their permission first,” A reporter calls out from the back. “That’s not the kind of country we live in.”

 

“It’s full of poison,” Steve comments, tensely, from where he’s in something of a standoff with an officer. “It used to be cyanide in the 40s, I don’t know if they changed it over the years. I can’t believe they still use false teeth at all.”

 

“It’s not terribly innovative,” Jen agrees from somewhere else in the room out of Bucky’s sight lines. “Excuse me, but I’m still a little confused about who we just caught.”

 

“This is going to sound silly,” Natalia says, from another part of the room. She sounds embarrassed, like she’s about to admit that she believes in Santa Claus. “James, you’re not holding D.B. Cooper, are you?”

 

Congressman Stevenson cringes and suddenly the attention in the room gets a lot more focused.

 

“Unbelievable,” Bucky hears Clint saying. “They didn’t even give him a new nose. How did no one catch that?”

 

It still doesn’t prove anything, of course, but once the FBI gets there and actually confirm that the middle tooth in Bucky’s bloody hand is false, hollow, and filled with an unknown liquid, the story gets a lot more believable.

 

“Long day at the office?” Sam chirps at them, as they make their way back to his house that night.

 

“Shut up, Sam,” Steve mutters. He sounds exhausted.

 

“I know,” Sam grins. “It’s rough losing your title as America’s Favourite Non-Aging World War II Vet, but I still think you can cut yourself _some_ slack. I mean, if you work hard enough maybe you can win us back. You’re gonna have to start kissing babies now though, and if Bucky stumbles across Jack the Ripper on the way to the bathroom tomorrow, you’re hooped.”

 

Steve moans in frustration (it’s his “please stop talking” sound – Bucky remembers it now), but there’s still a smile clearly visible on his face before he faceplants into the couch cushions.

 


	4. The Drowned Ceremony of Innocence, Part Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Sorry for the extra long break between chapters, but thanks for your patience! This section was particularly uncooperative. It was actually supposed to be the final chapter but then I looked at the page count on the word document and realized there was a good chance it would be well over 60 pages. So I changed my mind and broke it into two (and omitted one part entirely - there may be an in-'verse one-shot coming to you at some point). Hopefully this means you won't have to wait as long for that final chapter, though.
> 
> Once again, if I am talking about something legal, assume there is the tiniest grain of truth in there, and everything else has been made the hell up. Also there is some more focus on Steve as a sex-positive asexual and demisexual, but again they don't really label anything. Mostly because they pre-date the labels and so far the story hasn't really provided a space where they can sit down and compare the past to the present.
> 
> My beta [MomentsOfWeakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness) received screaming capslock fanmail from me this chapter (assuming tumblr didn't eat it), thanking her for fixing my oversights. She is really good at what she does, but she also pointed out things I had to rewrite after incorporating her corrections. So any errors you see are all me, and what tends to happen when someone isn't looking over my shoulder to tell me what I've done wrong.

Sometimes Bucky can almost believe that the worst of his past is murdering people off of his own hit list instead of HYDRA’s. That nothing could be worse than knowing he actively sought out and murdered people without a second thought about the morality of what he was doing.

 

Other nights he wakes up crying, remembering the burning wreckage of Howard’s car, or with the screams of terrified children and distraught mothers ringing in his ears. A few times he wakes up to the distant laughter of his past handlers, telling him he’s done well. Steve is always there as he fights to get his bearings, a hand slowly dragging through his tangled hair and an arm wrapped across his chest. He whispers into Bucky’s ear and tells him it will be alright until Bucky relaxes enough to unclench the muscles in his body and go limp. Bucky’s usually so tired he almost believes the things Steve says. Almost.

 

He wakes up each morning determined to keep distance between them. It feels awkward and wrong, but at the same time he feels like it’s dangerous to let Steve get too close, like if he does Steve will only get hurt on Bucky’s jagged edges. It’s easier during the day, when he’s mostly happy to be in the same room as Steve. He doesn’t need to talk to him much, just be able to look and reassure himself that he’s still there.

 

(Things are different at night though, when he can feel his mind start to float away from his body and worries about what will happen if he’s not still himself when he wakes up. The safety Steve offers at night is irresistible and he can’t resist the pull of Steve’s room, of Steve’s arms wrapping around him, holding him inside his skin.)

 

Other days he doesn’t care about any of it. Other days he can’t manage getting out of bed or answering Steve’s questions. His body feels detached only he can’t seem to make himself care. He doesn’t care about his victims, or Steve, or his past, or even his future. He only wants to sleep. He often can’t. Often he spends the day staring blankly at the ceiling, trying to remember what he’s trying to achieve, and why he wants it in the first place.

 

Some days the only thing that keeps him going is opening his eyes and forcing himself to remember that he is _supposed_ to be hurting, that he has a mission that he needs to follow. Some days the only thing that makes him keep breathing is pretending that it isn’t up to him at all.

 

***

 

The testimonies at Congress last for a couple weeks before they recommend amnesty (pending future investigations). Sam, Steve, and the ever rotating guest list of Avengers finally get to pack up Bucky and take him back to the tower. It’s interesting that he doesn’t mind returning as much as he thought he would. Before Congress, living at the tower had been exhausting. Besides the never-ending series of appointments with Jenny and Doc Samson, it was draining being around so many people all the time. It’s not that he doesn’t like the other Avengers – it’s surprising to him how much he _does_ like them.

 

But humanity doesn’t come naturally to him anymore, and he feels like a liar when he tries to interact with anyone who might not know how little of him is left. He has to fight not to let them see how much their acceptance unsettles him. They’re expecting him to be normal once they chip past his blank exterior, and Bucky doesn’t feel normal on a good day. He’s nervous about so many people trying to get close, about what happens when they find out that deep down inside, all he is is empty.

 

He tries to hold them at arm’s length, but even on his and Steve’s private floor at the tower the Avengers have trouble with boundaries. Tony can disappear for a week only to turn up in their kitchen at 4 in the morning, demanding Bucky’s opinion about draft picks for that science fiction football league he still won’t stop talking about as Bucky desperately tries to hide the way his whole body instinctively twitches towards the knife drawer.

 

Tony never comments on the way he responds, but the long absences get shorter after a while, and the abrupt questions get less abrupt. (Steve says that Tony has been reading the HYDRA files Natalia found on the Soldier, that it’s helping him put the blame for his parents’ deaths where it belongs, like it shouldn’t stop with him.) Pepper will interrupt breakfast to get his signature on 20 different documents. (The first time it happened Bucky almost had a breakdown because he still doesn’t know what his signature _is._ )

 

Clint is easier to take, since he at least never makes an appearance without the dog, but one time he wanders in, giving a younger girl he vaguely introduces as “his apprentice” a tour (even though it’s a _private floor_ ) and the unexpectedness of it startles Bucky so badly he goes straight into Steve’s room and won’t open the door for an hour.

 

Everyone means well but the end result is he’s always tense around Steve’s team. He wants to make them happy, make _Steve_ happy, and answer their questions and speak up when he has a thought, but his throat is tight and closed off in their presence. Sometimes even saying as little as one word physically hurts when he can feel their eyes on him.

 

A part of him had begun to look forward to testifying just because he would get a break from them, if nothing else. Of course they ended up following him to D.C. to keep him company at the end of each day. The first few evenings had been a new kind of torture for Bucky and he’d strongly considered packing up and running away, sick and tired of being scared and flinching at shadows. But then he realized how much easier it was to get along with them when they were staying with Sam. Even Tony’s “guest behaviour” was a vast improvement over the cheerfully aggressive way he acted in New York. No one was quite as intimidating as they used to be, and the fear of saying the wrong thing didn’t hold as much weight as it used to.

 

It takes about a week after getting back to the tower before Bucky realizes there’s a difference here too, because he still doesn’t like to venture too far away from the safety of his and Steve’s floor. (It isn’t Sam’s floor now that Tony’s given him his own space in the tower, even though he’s moving out of the guest bedroom at a snail’s pace.) He still doesn’t like it when they see him struggle with something that should come easily to him, and he hates small talk more than he could ever begin to say, which is funny because he’s pretty sure he used to be good at it. Still, there is definitely a difference now. He’s better at recognizing that kindness doesn’t have an ulterior motive with these people, and he finds that even though he can’t talk about weather or movies with them, his voice doesn’t freeze in his throat when he has something to say around them. It’s nice.

 

It’s also good timing, because while Steve’s friends are becoming less of a puzzle to him, Steve is turning into a mystery. Again. Still? Bucky knows that Steve had feelings for him (Steve said as much), and he’s pretty sure that they haven’t gone away since that conversation. Now he’s started to get worried about his own feelings about their relationship, and whether Steve will be alright with them once he’s gotten to a place where he’s ready to do something about them. The need for closeness he has at night isn’t fading during the day like it used to, and it makes him nervous.

 

Something is missing from their relationship right now, there has to be, but he doesn’t know what it is. Based on what he’s seen when he tentatively tries to watch daytime TV in the common room (Clint and Sam are fiercely committed to soap operas), he thinks sex might be involved somehow. People who are in serious relationships always have sex, and when those relationships fall apart, the lack of sex is the first thing they complain about. There’s also a lot of tension about secret pregnancies, evil twins, and love triangles, so maybe these shows don’t hold the answers he needs. On the other hand, he’s a recovering abductee who was forcibly given amnesia and brainwashed to do evil, and his new friends all have similarly weird histories. Maybe soap operas are as close to normal as life gets for an Avenger.

 

But saying outright that sex is going to fix their relationship – that it’s the one thing that they’re missing doesn’t feel right either. He’d be lying if he said sex isn’t starting to sound a lot more appealing than it did when he first reunited with Steve, but frankly, he’s still a little leery of the idea of it.  At this point in what Doc Samson insists on calling his “immediate recovery,” Bucky doesn’t really cope well with intensity of any kind. He’s pretty sure having sex with Steve now would be a lot like eating chocolate fudge when you have the stomach flu. It’s one thing to want something when you’re seriously compromised, but indulging is only going to leave you with a mess and unpleasant memories.

 

That doesn’t make what they have now satisfying, either. Which is _awful_. Not because Bucky is desperately wants to get past his issues and ravish Steve, but because Steve looks at Bucky like he’s perfectly happy with what they have. (No. Not perfectly happy. Like he’s perfectly happy to _settle_ with what they have.) Bucky isn’t. The idea of things staying like this makes him think of HYDRA, in a strange way. Not terrible or terrifying, but empty and grey. It’s probably selfish and absolutely more than he deserves, but Bucky doesn’t want to be lonely anymore, and he doesn’t want Steve to settle for something that’s only close to what he wants. Steve is too good to settle for anything.

 

At the end of the day, he just misses Steve, even though the lug hasn’t gone anywhere. He misses being in sync with him, understanding him, and the way Steve would stare at Bucky during and after, like he was looking at something beautiful.

 

He wishes he was brave enough to tell Steve he deserves better.

 

***

 

It’s several weeks after Bucky begins to feel like he actually is living in his own body again, and that the way he looks at Steve and _wants_ is more familiar than overwhelming, that he becomes aware of the media. Or rather, he gives up on refusing to acknowledge that they’re stalking him and begins to pay attention to what they’re saying. And they _are_ still saying things. He’d sort of thought they might lose interest in him once he stopped showing up places with Tony Stark, but apparently solving unsolved mysteries live on C-SPAN grabs a lot of attention, too.

 

Public opinion about him changes daily. Some days he’s a hero and there are calls for him to join the Avengers, and other days he’s a war criminal who needs to suffer for his crimes against America. Bucky is unable to decide which days he dislikes more. He wishes everyone would leave him alone, but if anything they keep getting worse, likely due to the fact that SHIELD’s final policy change of total transparency isn’t being taken up by all corners of the government. His testimony often ended up blocked on the live feeds, when it was decided that too much disclosure would damage ongoing investigations. It usually happened when someone with a lot of power was about to look like they hadn’t done their job properly, and much to the public’s displeasure, one of those times was on the day he answered questions about the crimes he committed on his own.

 

It was a near unanimous decision on the part of the committee, and Steve looked like he was going to have a breakdown for a minute when he heard, relief and guilt contorting his face. It was obvious the guy really wasn’t looking forward to his past being broadcast to the country. It was also obvious that he thought Bucky would win people over faster if they knew why his little murder spree happened instead of getting to invent their own explanations. Most of the information about him that was uploaded by Natalia is so heavily coded and encrypted it’s useless to the average citizen (even the good half of SHIELD didn’t recognize it for what it was before Steve took them down). But victim names were steadily leaking out ever since testimony began, and speculation is still running wild about which ones were the “innocent victims” of Bucky’s berserker rage.

 

In a lot of ways it _would_ make Bucky’s life easier if the public was able to learn a little more about his victims. If they were able to hear about some of the things that happened at the school, or if they were able to hear the testimony from Joe Atherton’s now middle-aged son. (He shook Bucky’s hand before he’d left, talking about how he’d accepted as a teenager that no one would ever stand between him and his father. That he would probably die young and become a statistic, until the night a mysterious figure stormed into their house and delivered angry justice like a vengeful guardian angel.) Bucky isn’t comfortable knowing that someone has spent their lives viewing him as a hero, and he doesn’t want the rest of the world to do it either, no more than he wants to be known as a dangerous criminal, but Bucky isn’t the only person who is affected by the decision.

 

At first, Steve doesn’t talk about it either way. He’s quiet about it for a surprisingly long time, but one day when he walks into the living room to see Bucky watching another opinion piece about his victims, he can’t take it. His angry ranting is so long-winded that Sam eventually wanders in to see what the commotion is about.

 

“Why is the government willing to let people stay frightened like this?” He demands. “Everyone would feel so much better if they knew there was a reason things happened the way that they happened.”

 

“It’s complicated,” Sam says. “I looked a little into your school way back after our talk at the VA. Apparently there’s a bill trying to go through legislature somewhere that will allow survivors of Barry’s School for Boys to sue the government for negligence even though it’s decades past the statute of limitations. Some people are working hard to push it through, but there are other people who would rather not hand out all that money, and lots of people are twitchy about it, in case it works and sets a precedent. It’s not the only case of system-wide government neglect and willful blindness, you know? Right now they’re trying to handle it quietly, but if Captain America’s name gets thrown into the mix? It won’t be so quiet after that.”

 

“I guess not,” Steve says, looking guiltier than ever. Bucky wants to slap him and tell him to worry about himself for once. He has an out this way, a way to keep a small piece of his life out of the spotlight and if he blows it Bucky will move in with Sam and never speak to him again. It feels like the old days when Steve would wait till Bucky was distracted before running off to play the hero.

 

Steve must understand this on some level, because he behaves himself, but the downside is that the journalist lose their collective _minds_ starting the second they’re shoed out of the observation galleries, even when the “subjects of a sensitive nature in ongoing investigations” excuse is given. Speculation runs wild, accusations of conspiracy become common place, and even the media that seems to be on Bucky’s side starts to squawk.

 

If it’s important enough that Congress needs to discuss it with him and it’s about events that are clearly in the distant past, it’s only fair that the public know about it too. The Russians beat Hitler, too, and they didn’t get a free pass when they started causing trouble. We didn’t run out and join the Soviet Union and let them slaughter innocents while thanking them for their service. If James Barnes is a risk to the American Public, the American Public deserves to know. And so on.

 

“I think I’m a little disappointed in America,” Bucky admits to Sam one evening. On the TV is a muddled joke of a report on CNN, speculating about the possibility of Bucky attacking civilians again in the future.

 

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks. “The constant comparisons to Darth Vader getting to you?”

 

“No, just why the hell is everyone assuming I mindlessly wandered around killing people unprovoked without even bothering to look at other possibilities? Why don’t they at least try to spot a pattern in the names they have? For a common link or something? Why doesn’t anyone bother to pay attention when all the answers are right there? They say they wanna know, why don’t they just _look_?”

 

“Welcome to journalism of the future,” Sam says, almost flippantly except for the sympathy in his eyes. “Today people don’t take time to investigate something before they talk about it. If they learn all the facts, someone else will get the scoop before they do. Can’t have that. Besides most of those records probably aren’t even digitized yet. You can’t google a literal paper trail.”

 

“That’s terrible,” Bucky says. Not that journalism was any better back when it was just him and Steve.

 

“Yep,” Sam says as he gets up to wander back into the kitchen for another beer. “But it’s not always so bad. If you’re ballsy enough you can basically make the media eat out of your hand. Stark is pretty good at it. If you’re never afraid to put on a show, people don’t worry about anything you might not be saying. Just keep everyone distracted.”

 

“Sounds exhausting,” Bucky says, and tries not to think about it anymore. It doesn’t work.

 

***

 

“They don’t even _know_ anything,” he comments one morning after Natalia volunteers to buy all the copies of the New York Times she can find specifically so she can throw away an opinion piece. Bucky doesn’t read all of it, but the gist seems to be that the government is trying to cover up the fact that he and Steve are obviously Nazi sympathizers. Because _that_ makes sense. “I don’t know why this is so important.”

 

(They don’t usually eat breakfast with the other Avengers, but sometimes one of them gets it into their head to make pancakes on the common floor, and JARVIS sends out an alert and Steve always looks so hopeful. The longer he’s back the harder it is to say no to that face.)

 

“It’s important because they don’t know anything,” Pepper says, after the perfunctory offers to sic lawyers on the paper have been offered. (Bucky shakes his head and tries to smile at her so she knows he appreciates it, but he can’t tell if it works.)

 

“Reporters like to tell a story,” Clint says. “Especially if they get to make it up themselves.”

 

“It’s irresponsible,” Bucky mutters, spinning his empty coffee cup and sulking.

 

“Okay Grandpa,” Clint says. “I’ll let them know you’re disappointed in them.”

 

“Are you really that upset by this?” Steve asks, a worried expression on his face.

 

“ _You’re_ that upset by this,” Bucky says. “That upsets me.”

 

“Me?” Steve looks genuinely confused. “I’m not upset, I’m only worried about you.”

 

Bucky smiles at him. The overwhelming rush of fondness is an odd response to have when your…. Steve is literally lying to your face, but Bucky can’t help it. He’s just so relieved that he can read Steve’s old tells again. That he hasn’t forgotten for good.

 

“Liar,” he says. “You’re worried about me, and you’re worried about a bunch of people you’ve never met, and you’re worried that everyone will hear the truth and feel sorry for you.”

 

Steve is shaking his head a little and the rest of the breakfast table is suddenly bathed in awkward silence, but Bucky is used to awkward silences now. It’s not that hard to pretend like they aren’t in the room, anyhow. Not when he has Steve to focus on.

 

“You’re still as hopeless as you ever were,” Bucky says. “Can’t let anyone see your underbelly.”

 

“Look,” Steve says, floundering. “It wasn’t pleasant, okay? I’m certainly not arguing that. But it’s far from the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

 

“It’s the worst thing that’s stayed secret,” Bucky says. “Not even most of the people in the tower know all of it.”

 

“It’s really okay if you want to keep it that way,” Bruce offers. “We don’t need to hear anything.”

 

“Of course you don’t,” Bucky says. “But you’re not who he wants to talk to.”

 

“I don’t want to talk to anyone,” Steve insists. “Bucky, I don’t know why you’re so stuck on this. I just want the media to stop treating you like a criminal and poking around in our past. It isn’t fair to you.”

 

“It’s even less fair to you,” Bucky says. “You’re gonna be the one who cracks and talks to them.”

 

“What do you think I’m going to do?” Steve asks. “Call a press conference? Gossip magazine? That’s not my style.”

 

“That’s not how it’ll happen,” Bucky agrees. “You like helping people. Someone’s going to say something stupid about someone else and you’ll forget yourself and leap to their rescue. No more secrets.”

 

He’s struck with the sudden impulse to reach out and rub the back of Steve’s neck, to connect with him in a way that feels more intimate than how they usually are in the daytime. But Steve is out of arm’s reach, and he doesn’t show any signs of coming closer.

 

Bucky has no doubt that the conversation would keep going, much to the embarrassment of everyone at the breakfast table, but Tony comes wandering in, dripping wet and muttering to himself.

 

“Hi honey,” Pepper says, a little like she’s gritting her teeth. But fondly. “Did you fall asleep with your soldering torch on again? You know that upsets the kids.”

 

Bucky glances to Steve in confusion, because he’s pretty sure if Pepper and Tony made babies, there’s no way Bucky or anyone in Manhattan could overlook their presence.

 

“Robots,” Steve whispers by way of explanation. Horrifyingly, Bucky understands perfectly.

 

“I wasn’t in the lab,” Tony protests, making a beeline to the nearest tea towel, ignoring Pepper’s noises of protest. “I was on the landing testing the self-propelled suits and all the sudden it started _pouring_. One of the suits almost got hit by a bolt of lightning.”

 

Bruce frowns.

 

“The forecast said it was supposed to be sunny today.”

 

“Well those guys are hacks,” Tony says, angrily. “I don’t get my delightfully tousled look by _chance_. Artfully unkempt takes effort and if those chucklefucks can’t foresee something as big as the sky opening up and unleashing the floodgates of heaven like the wrath of some angry… god… _Ooh. Right_.”

 

“Back to the landing?” Natalia suggests, looking like she’s trying very hard to keep from calling Tony names.

 

“What the hell,” Tony says. “My hair’s already ruined.”

 

Bucky has no idea what is happening and is even more confused when everyone stands up and starts to make their way outside.

 

“Are we being attacked?” He asks, cautiously.

 

“Attacked is overstating it a little,” Steve says, putting his hand on the small of Steve’s back. “More like ‘greeted with enthusiasm.’ You ready to meet our resident deity?”

 

“The thunder god?” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow. He hadn’t entirely believed that they weren’t making that one up.

 

Steve’s hand feels good where it is. Bucky wonders if it would be wrong to avoid the apparent visitor and just stay here, trying to come up with ways to convince Steve to let it wander lower down (sex sounds less overwhelming by the minute these days). Steve glances at Bucky’s face and moves his hand away, no hint of awkwardness or awareness creeping into his tone.

 

“It’s not as impressive as it sounds,” Steve says, like he doesn’t want Bucky to get his hopes up too high. Then he pauses and tilts his head to the side as he considers. “Well, maybe it is, but it wears off after you’ve seen him challenge frat boys to drinking contests three times in a single night.”

 

“Sounds interesting,” Bucky offers, as they walk to the landing doors. An angry black cloud is billowing above the tower, thunder and lightning escaping from it intermittently.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Apparently gods really like a good party.”

 

***

 

Thor is… different from what Bucky was expecting. He hangs back to watch from a distance with Steve, who clutches Lucky’s collar while the dog practically loses his _mind_. The god (alien?) lands in an explosion of light and a man who towers over everyone but Steve tramps loudly about as he greets the assembled Avengers with hugs and booming greetings. Sam is introduced and promptly caught up in a bone-crushing hug. Bucky stiffens a little, because he’s not sure if he can handle introductions that end with aggressive hugging. The nerves ease off a little when Betty is met with a charming smile and a kiss to the back of her hand, but even if Bucky was a lady, he’s not sure if he’d want that, either.

 

Thor’s presence is so overwhelming that it takes a few moments to notice that he didn’t arrive alone. There’s a tiny wisp of a woman almost hiding behind Thor, as uncertain and out of place as Bucky feels. She’s wearing the expression of the hopelessly awkward who want to make a good impression. It doesn’t suit her, and Bucky thinks that for all her awkwardness, she’s not used to putting herself into situations where she cares about making people like her. They catch each other’s eye for half a second, and Bucky tries to return her gaze with what he hopes is understanding.

 

His attention is drawn back to Thor when he casually tosses a hammer to the side. It lands with a loud ominous thud, like it’s much heavier than it looks.

 

“The Lady Jane had research here on Midgard that could no longer be overlooked,” Thor is explaining to Natalia. “She has made great strides with her work on Asgard, but as she has told me, unless she is here, she can never hope to lead your people out of your dark ages.”

 

“Ugh, good luck,” Tony says offhandedly to the woman before stopping to process Thor’s words and give her a second glance. “Wait. _You’re_ Jane Foster? The scientist? I keep your papers pinned to the ceiling over my bed.”

 

“Um, hi,” The woman says, self-consciously waving to the group in general. “Nice to meet you. Thor has told me so much about you all, this is very…uh. This is nice.”

 

She winces a little, before smiling a little too widely as she adds,

 

“Good work on saving New York, by the way.”

 

Natalia is smiling at her like she is a seeing a stunned kitten that has wandered into the building: adorable and weaponized.

 

“Good work on saving London,” she says.

 

Jane smiles at her, fractionally relaxing at the gesture, and before Bucky can fully process what he’s seeing, the tower scientists have abandoned the larger group and are surrounding her. She’s steered away from the action as they lob question after question, about Asgard, and bridges, and things that Bucky’s junior high school education can’t keep up with, even after all the on-the-job training he got from HYDRA.

 

Pepper is sighing a little sadly, saying,

 

“There’s nothing to be done for it, I’m afraid. We seem to have lost the scientists. Are you here for very long, Thor? Or was this trip just to return Jane?”

 

The bright cheerful energy that buzzes around Thor dies a little at that and he seems to still. Bucky thinks he imagines it at first, but then he notices the way Steve looks up from trying to calm Lucky, his brow furrowing in concern.

 

“I fear things are not as they should be on Asgard,” Thor says.

 

“How so?” Asks Natalia, her body straightening slightly, like she plans to travel across universes to punch Thor’s problems into submission herself.

 

“It does not bear discussion at this time,” Thor says. “But there have been… significant changes in the state of my family back home. Some change in my father is to be expected in their wake, but even so his demeanour is peculiar to me. I cannot say what causes it, but sometimes problems are better identified when viewed from a distance. I had hoped Midgard would help provide that distance.”

 

“Well feel free to stay as long as you like,” Tony says over his shoulder, like he owns the entire planet. “Your smart, sexy girlfriend can stay forever.”

 

“Tony,” Steve says, in a disapproving tone that Bucky distinctly remembers being on the receiving end of. “That’s not an appropriate way to talk about a lady, not to mention one who’s standing right in front of you.”

 

Bucky is contemplating drawing enough attention to himself to point out that Steve is hardly an expert on what should and shouldn’t be said in front of pretty ladies when Thor’s eyes seem to land on them for the first time.

 

“Captain!” He calls out, happily. “It is good to see you again!”

 

He moves towards them like a Pamplona bull that’s just spotted a runner, and Bucky feels himself bracing for a painful impact, even though he’s not the one in the line of fire. He wonders how much it hurts when an overly-muscled alien hits a body enhanced by Allied science. Lucky skitters out of the way just before Thor crushes Steve to his chest, hugging so ferociously that Steve’s feet actually leave the ground.

 

“Heimdall informed me of all your doings before opening the portal to your world,” Thor is saying, still swinging Steve around like a ragdoll. “I am glad you and your shield brother are reunited once again.”

 

He finally sets Steve down with a surprisingly gentle pat on the shoulder before turning to face Bucky.

 

“Am I to take it that this is he?”

 

Aside from his frustratingly unheated interactions with Steve and the very odd time with Natalia, Bucky really hasn’t experienced much in the way of physical contact since he’s escaped HYDRA. Come to think of it, he didn’t experience much of it with HYDRA either. When he did, certainly none of it could be called pleasant. He doesn’t want to give the wrong impression or say the wrong thing (Steve is looking at both of them with that damned hopeful expression again), but he does not want Thor to touch him. He doesn’t want to ignore the threat that comes even with a friendly touch, or to submit to the will of someone obviously so much stronger than himself. He resigns himself to having no choice. It’ll be fine. He can do this for Steve.

 

But nothing happens. As Thor crowds closer into his personal space and Bucky holds himself tighter as he tries to empty his mind, a flash of something crosses the other man’s face. It’s subtle, and Bucky almost misses it (the way the lines around his eyes seem to tighten, the way his smile dims just a fraction), but it’s there. Thor stops with feet of space between them.

 

“A man who is so important a friend to our captain is a man I too would like to call friend one day,” he says, and Christ. Who talks like this? “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, James Buchanan Barnes.”

 

“Likewise,” Bucky manages and then, because he feels like he should say thank you for hauling back at the last minute and doesn’t know how, he tentatively puts his hand out in front of him, across the gap.

 

Thor shakes it enthusiastically but quickly, and Bucky pulls away just as fast, but it’s not as bad as he worried it would be. Especially when Thor is distracted almost instantly by Lucky, who has started to whine for attention.

 

“And what is this fell beast?” Thor asks, laughing.

 

Lucky puts his paws on Thor’s breastplate and tries to lick at his face.

 

“This creature is missing an eye. Surely you don’t engage in combat with it during training?”

 

Bucky doesn’t miss the convenient timing of Thor’s sudden Gracie Allen impression, either. He slowly starts to wonder if all the spectacular buffoonery of the classic gods who Steve had been so fond of reading about in school was really genuine stupidity. Maybe it was just the divine way of making insecure mortals feel better about their hang ups.

 

***

 

It’s sometime after Congress that Bucky clues into the fact that the way his new housemates insist on cornering him for pointless chats and activities isn’t normal friendliness. He’s being resocialized, not unlike the time he and Steve fed that feral alley cat for a while after they’d left the Bowers. He knows he still needs it, because talking in front of people isn’t the same as talking _to_ them. Calling his people skills rusty is too kind, but at the same time, he’s not sure the right people have volunteered for the job. Bucky is learning that while superheroes are great at saving the planet and charming the media, they’re sort of at sea when it comes to normal interactions.

 

Tony has the attention span of an over-caffeinated gnat and can’t stay still long enough to get to know someone who isn’t prepared to trail after him asking JARVIS to interpret the science. When Thor isn’t happily bellowing about adventures on roads made out of rainbows, he spends most of his time mooning over his pretty scientist and trying not to knock over her experiments. Bruce and Pepper are perfectly capable of typical adult behaviour, but once they progress past small talk, they look at him with a sort of helpless desperation that seems to indicate that without being able to play off his own personal interests, they have no idea how to have a casual conversation.

 

Bucky doesn’t hold any of it against them. Tony’s restlessness comes with a manic energy that plainly indicates a man too busy wrestling with his own demons to stomach looking at anyone else’s. Thor constantly paces the floor above Bucky’s when he’s not with Jane, and it’s obvious that his time with Jane is the only escape he has from his worries. So far as Bruce and Pepper are concerned, Bucky is fairly certain that their personal interests are genuinely lab work and making money. They might _want_ to help Bucky find a place for himself in the future, but they also know enough to understand that the average person doesn’t create control groups or intimidate shareholders for fun.

 

Usually interactions with the team start when one of them politely tries to make Bucky feel included in a conversation by asking something personal and relevant. What’s your favourite book? Movie? City? What kinds of music do you like? Then his brain seizes as he tries to decide if he knows the answer to even these Mickey Mouse questions. 

 

He knows what the answers used to be, a long time ago. (Anything by Hammett. _Duck Soup_. Paris. Swing.) But it’s been so long since he even remembered things like movies exist, he’s not sure if those answers are true anymore. The way he sees the world has changed so much, and the world has changed so much without him noticing. When it comes to who he is, the only thing he can still say with certainty is that he cares about Steve, in every possible way.

 

(And Steve himself is the perfect example of how hopeless he is at being normal. He should be able to let Steve know that he’s ready for more. He should be able to talk to him about things like sex and honesty and somehow making their relationship about more than just Steve taking care of him, worrying about him. But he can’t find the right combination of actions to make Steve understand he doesn’t need the coddling anymore, or his nudges in the direction of “more.” Some mornings he wakes up with Steve’s morning erection prodding at him, and he tries to push back against it, so Steve knows he doesn’t mind, but Steve only shifts away, talking and pretending he hasn’t noticed anything at all. Bucky’s dreams are full of the intimacy they used to share, and now he’s certain that sex is involved, but only as a part of the bigger picture. They understood each other without speaking once. They used to be connected, and he wants it back.)

 

He feels the gaps in his identity every time he tries to talk to the people around him, and he worries that it might make them uncomfortable. Which makes _him_ uncomfortable. He just doesn’t know how to stop feeling vulnerable when they see how inhuman he’s become. He knows he’s not the only one who’s out of his depth in the modern world. Steve and even Thor struggle as well, but watching them sort out the world around them is wonderful, not painful. When someone tells Thor something he doesn’t know, his eyes light up like a child’s. To him humanity is a wonderful adventure and he’s more than happy to learn as much as he can, to find the beauty hidden in each new piece of information.

 

Steve on the other hand tackles new things with the eagerness of a student and the determination of a soldier. He’ll try anything, if only to say that he’s done it, that he’s a little wiser than when he started. Bucky’s pretty sure there’s some sort of betting pool to see if there’s anything Steve _won’t_ do. He’s even been goaded into playing “Target Chicken” with Clint, while Thor, God of “If It Moves I’ll Challenge It to a Fight” only shook his head and laughed.

 

Bucky however, is never visibly curious about the things he doesn’t know. He mostly remembers new experiences coming hand-in-hand with lots of pain, and new knowledge has only ever been given to him for use as a weapon. It’s the difference between giving a ball of yarn to a kitten and trying to play with that alley cat that’s spent most of its life getting kicked, and the team knows it.

 

Pepper will suggest he join her and Steve one day when they’re taking a trip to the MOMA to look at a Matisse exhibit, only to stammer to a halt halfway through the invitation when she sees the expression on his face. Soon Bruce and Betty stop trying to convince him to join them on their regular “Tony Feeding” lunch outings to try new kinds of food. Thor and Tony only ever half-heartedly invite him to join the team when they gather in the central living area to watch a movie or play something called “Mario Kart.” It’s maddening. There is something very wrong with the way Bucky is now, and if he could just figure out how to change it, how to stop holding life at arm’s length, he’d be able to fit into Steve’s world again. Fortunately, there is at least one Avenger who is both nosy and rude enough to help him.

 

“You need to stop staring at people like they’ve just asked you to steal Christmas any time they try to include you,” Clint says and signs to him. “That tends to put people off.”

 

The sign language has been happening for a while now. One morning after Jane had tried and failed miserably to get Bucky to join Thor and their friend Darcy on their trip to the water park, Clint flopped down next to him on the couch and started to hold up his hand in various positions as he repeated the alphabet. It took a few moments before Bucky figured out what he was doing.

 

“Are you trying to teach me sign language?” He had asked, a little incredulous.

 

“Just ASL,” Clint shrugged. “For now, I mean. I like to have a few languages in my wheelhouse in case they come in handy on missions, but we’ll start off simple for now. Why? Do you already know it?”

 

“No,” Bucky said, slowly.

 

“Okay then,” Clint said. “Now let’s start again, but you try to do them with me this time.”

 

“Um,” Bucky said. “ _Why_ are you teaching me this?”

 

“You seem to have a lot of free time on your hands,” Clint said. “What with how you’re allergic to fun and all. You might as well do something useful.”

 

“Why didn’t you just ask?” Bucky said.

 

“So you could tell me no like you do with everyone else?” Clint said. “Not likely. Now focus. If my half-blind dog can learn this, there’s no reason why you can’t.”

 

So far, Clint is mainly using their new method of communication to insult Bucky’s people skills and fashion choices (as though Clint has any room to mock anyone’s fashion choices). It hasn’t really helped Bucky learn how to interact with regular people that well yet, but if he ever has to talk to another deaf circus runaway who was raised alongside wolves, he’ll be ready. And anyhow, it’s nice to know that not all of his friends have to be best friends with Steve first.

 

***

 

“Do you ever think about school?” Bucky asks one day, looking up from the paper he’s reading.

 

Steve glances up at him in surprise, and okay, maybe the question was a little out of the blue if you don’t have an inside track on how his mind seems to work these days.

 

“I think about the school all the time,” Steve says slowly.

 

“I don’t mean the _school_ ,” Bucky says. “Just… school. This article is talking about war vets and free education.”

 

“You want to go back to school?” Steve asks, perking up like Lucky does when he hears food in his bowl.

 

Bucky shrugs. If he’s honest with himself there are still a lot of things about his life now that he doesn’t trust. New knowledge that he can’t find on his own is still suspect, and information filtered through a middleman makes him nervous, but he wants to deserve his new space in the universe, too. He wants to be better, for Steve and for the old him who fell.

 

“It’s only… Jesus, Steve, we never even got through Junior High, and I _know_ that always bothered you.  I keep reading papers to try and figure out what I’m missing, but I don’t understand any of it. There’s an article in here about stupid parents bringing back a whole mess of diseases that almost killed you when we were kids. I didn’t even know they’d been wiped out in the first place. The only countries I know anything about are ones where I toppled the government. I get that I know more about tactics and trajectories than the average grade 12 student, but what exactly didwe miss out on?”

 

Steve purses his lips and thinks about it before answering.

 

“Well, I know that we probably picked up a lot more languages on the warfront than we ever would have in a classroom. I know what you mean though.”

 

“But people go back,” Bucky prompts. “That’s a thing you can do now?”

 

“Definitely,” Steve nods. “Not just war vets either. I was taking a few high school and university courses through SHIELD at one point. At least, I was until the agent who was tutoring me turned out to be working for HYDRA.”

 

Bucky is quiet for a long moment before finally shaking the paper again and saying,

 

“Maybe we could try signing up for local night classes this time, like they’re suggesting in here?”

 

“Okay,” Steve nods, grin getting wider. “That sounds good. I would like that a lot.”

 

Bucky stares. Probably past the point where it’s normal, but he can’t help it. He wants that smile to last forever. He wants to be the reason it does. Maybe he wants the old Them back more than he thought, even if he still doesn’t know how to get there.

 

***

 

_“Aw, come on,” Steve wheedles, shifting forward a little to glare at Bucky from his position cuddled up against Bucky’s chest. Bucky lets out a huff of protest as he gets an elbow to the sternum. “Don’t stop now. I want to know what happens next, and you’re not even at the end of the chapter yet.”_

_“My voice is tired,” Bucky protests. “You know, if you’re feeling so much better than yesterday like you keep trying to tell me, you could always finish the chapter yourself.”_

_“I like the voices you make for the characters,” Steve says, unmoved as he reaches down to rearrange the blanket they’re wrapped up in._

_“Steeve,” Bucky whines, feeling his resolve falter. “I’ve been reading for over an hour. And anyhow, based on how things have played out so far, we already know what happens next: Nick gets drunk; Nora helps; someone dies in a hail of gunfire; someone else gets slapped; Nick is almost witty but slightly too lazy to pull it off; Nora is charming; we secretly wonder how a louse like Nick managed to catch her eye; and we still don’t find out who killed the girl that started this whole thing in the first place. End of chapter.”_

_“Really?” Steve sounds a little disappointed in him. “I like Nick, though. I don’t get how you can root for the Continental Op like he plays for the Dodgers and still think Nick’s nothing more than a drunken lout. I mean, only one of them goes on a reckless killing spree, and it’s not Nick.”_

_“The difference,” Bucky says, “is that Hammett never tried to pass the Op off as a swell catch for a classy lady.”_

_“Nora’s not so classy,” Steve argues. “She has as much fun getting involved with this stuff as he does. More maybe.”_

_“Well,_ I _think Nick holds her back,” Bucky says. “Nora is this perfect little thing who you expect to be proper and boring and well-behaved, but she’s really whip-smart and a firecracker. She’d solve this whole thing ten times faster if Nick wasn’t there hogging the spotlight.”_

_Steve looks at him shrewdly._

_“I think the point is that they’re the ultimate crime-fighting team,” he says as he turns himself around so they’re now lying chest-to-chest._

_“It just weird that she stays,” Bucky insists as Steve pulls the book out of his hand and twines their fingers together._

_“Weird works sometimes,” he says, shrugging a little as he glances up and smiles. “Some people like louts who hog the spotlight. Nothing wrong with that.”_

_“You calling me a lout?”_

_“Only a little. You calling me a dame?”_

_“Wouldn’t dream of it.”_

_Steve laughs and reaches up slightly to kiss Bucky on the mouth._

_“Well, if the lady you’re comparing me to is Nora, I guess I don’t mind that much. If I ever meet a girl like that, you’re gonna have to talk pretty fast to keep me from running off and marrying her.”_

_“Understood,” Bucky says, and kisses him back._

_He feels himself stirring to life a little in his pyjama bottoms and tries to subtly shift away from Steve’s hips, but it’s too little too late. Steve pulls back and looks at him with a raised eyebrow._

_“Something you want to tell me?” He asks._

_“Not especially,” Bucky says._

_“We could if you wanted to,” Steve offers._

_“Steve,” Bucky says, trying not to sound too exasperated. “You were sicker than a dog less than 24 hours ago. You over-exert yourself and we’ll end up right back where we started.”_

_“I’ll be careful,” Steve insists._

_“You don’t have to,” Bucky says. He means it. He never,_ ever _asks Steve for this. Never wants Steve to feel like he owes Bucky anything._

_“I like it,” Steve insists, flailing slightly as he negotiates himself into a sitting position before carefully moving to straddle Bucky’s thighs. “You don’t need to try so hard to protect me, Buck. Especially not from yourself. Don’t overthink it. I don’t.”_

_Bucky has always found Steve impossibly attractive when he gets earnest like this. His so-called resolve goes out the window whenever Steve trots it out, and Steve knows it, damn him._

_“Is the door locked?” He asks._

_Steve rolls his eyes._

_“No,” he says. “I left it open. Oh, and I invited Mrs. Hansen to stop by for tea, too. Do you think she’ll mind?”_

_“Smart ass,” Bucky mutters, but he’s already reaching for Steve’s shirt, gently pulling it open._

_“You love it,” Steve says._

_Bucky can’t argue._

 

***

 

Bucky wakes up, a little slower than he does with a nightmare, but with a jolt of insight that has him wide awake all the same. He can feel Steve’s warmth in the bed next to him, a respectful distance away and suddenly more than anything he needs to know why. Why is there always distance there unless he’s falling apart?

 

Steve’s eyes widen in alarm as Bucky shakes him awake, like it’s an instinct to expect bad things when he’s woken involuntarily. The first time it happened it took him off guard, but now Bucky is pretty sure there’s precedent for this. He has the distinct impression that their childhoods were spent with Steve’s endless illnesses and injuries keeping both of them awake as Bucky routinely forced Steve out of sleep to make sure he wasn’t dead yet. Like if Bucky distracted him enough, he’d forget to die.

 

“You okay?” Steve mumbles almost instantly, voice rough with sleep but eyes alert.

 

“You haven’t started anything,” Bucky accuses. “You don’t explain anything.”

 

Steve blinks at him in confusion.

 

“Was I asleep for the first part of this conversation?” He asks almost timidly, like he’s getting ready to be sorry if he was.

 

“Sex,” Bucky says and now Steve looks _really_ awake but no less confused.

 

“You woke me up because you want to talk about sex?” He asks.

 

“No,” says Bucky. “Yes. Maybe.”

 

Steve just stares at him for a minute before he quietly says,

 

“Okay. What did you want to talk about?”

 

For a second Bucky doesn’t say anything. This is not about the sex they aren’t having. He knows that. Maybe it’s not even about getting back to where they were before. Not exactly. It’s more about how tired he is of knowing that this awkward space that’s been between them in the past has been bridged before. He’s been assuming that the space between them right now is his fault, that he’s been missing a step somewhere and the second Steve sees it, everything will change. Now he’s suddenly wondering if Steve’s the one who isn’t moving. Like Bucky’s been trying to get back into the old patterns all along, and Steve is the one changing things. As though Bucky should be able to figure out how to improvise. As though this isn’t hard enough for him to keep track of already. Or maybe it’s sabotage, and Steve thinks he’s too broken to make the effort a second time. Either way, he has to know.

 

“You never talk about it,” Bucky says. “You just leave me on my own to figure things out. How’s that supposed to work for either of us?”

 

“What don’t I say?” Steve asks, a little dismayed, like he’s ruined something and shit. Bucky doesn’t want him to feel _guilty_. He just wants someone to explain the part he isn’t understanding.

 

“What you want,” He says. “I’ve been trying and trying to remember how I talked to you about this sort of stuff, but I never did, did I? We never managed to talk about anything unless you started it. And now you won’t start it.”

 

“Are you still talking about sex?” Steve asks.

 

“Probably not,” Bucky admits. “I don’t know what you want with any of this.”

 

He gestures vaguely between them, trying not to feel too relieved when Steve reaches out to gently grab his hand.

 

“I want whatever you want, Bucky,” he says. “You don’t need to be worried about where we’re headed. I just want you to be happy.”

 

“I was happy when I didn’t have to guess,” Bucky mutters, trying not to sound too immature.

 

“I already told you that I’m always gonna be in love with you,” Steve points out.

 

“Lots of people never stop loving each other,” Bucky says. “It doesn’t mean they have to stay with a person who drags them down.”

 

Steve shakes his head, his face a picture of self-loathing.

 

“I’m so bad at this,” he says, almost to himself before looking at Bucky again. “You could never drag me down, Bucky. My whole life you’ve been the person who keeps me going.” He swallows hard. “You’ve been really emotionally raw since you’ve come back, you know? You’ve been sorting through a lot of bad stuff. Sometimes the easiest way to deal with the awful parts of life is to pretend they don’t matter, that you’re stronger than them. And sometimes the only way to make yourself believe that is to face the world on your own for a while. I thought that was what you needed. Personal space. No pushing.”

 

Bucky narrows his eyes, feeling like he’s being reacquainted with a very important part of what makes Steve Steve. Oh, it sounds selfless enough on the surface, but this is more about Steve than Bucky, he’s certain of it. Suddenly Steve’s decisions to become a science experiment for the war effort or to burn government organizations to the ground are making a lot more sense.

 

“Things never went too hot when we didn’t tell each other what we were really thinking before,” he says. “Why should we try it again now?”

 

Steve looks at him a little strangely.

 

“Because,” he says. “It’s what you asked for.”

 

_That_ brings Bucky up short.

 

“What?”

 

“I already told you that I don’t want to push us into a relationship you don’t want anymore. And you said yourself that things have changed.”

 

Bucky thinks back to the way he’d felt that night he barged into this room and demanded that Steve not be in love with him. The way he’d been terrified about the feelings that were waking up inside him that he was incapable of naming. He remembers Steve’s resigned acceptance and realizes that for someone who just chastised Steve for communication problems, he’s not any good at it either. He wants to say Steve should have known better than to put value into what Bucky said in a panic. But that would be ridiculous, so what he says instead is:

 

“You’ve been letting me sleep in your bed, hang off of you like a leech, and follow you around like a second shadow, and all the while you’re thinking I would never love you back?”

 

Steve shrugs a little helplessly.

 

“I just wanted to be what you needed,” he says. “If that was what you needed, then fine.”

 

“You deserve better than that,” Bucky says.

 

“But I want you.”

 

Bucky wants to despair a little, listening to the way Steve is ready to disregard his own happiness to become someone’s crutch, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows how stubborn Steve is. Instead he just shifts to sit up next to him before reaching out to pull him into a weary hug.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says into Steve’s ear. “I should have told you when I figured it out instead of trying to make you do it for me. I’m not much for admitting how I feel anymore.”

 

“Hadn’t noticed,” Steve says, dryly.

 

“I love you,” Bucky says, quietly. “Like I did before.”

 

“Oh,” is all Steve says as he hugs back and tucks his head into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky thinks he can feel Steve crying a little.

 

“Maybe more than I did before,” he adds. He knows what it’s like without Steve there beside him now, after all. “Stevie?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“If this is how we deal with problems in our day-to-day lives, how did we manage to win a war?”

 

Steve laughs a little.

 

“It tends to work out better for everyone when I fight for the greater good and not what I want,” he admits.

 

They don’t fall back to sleep, and Bucky isn’t sure how long they stay that way, sprawled out across each other, occasionally saying something, mostly just content to be close. It’s not that different from how they’ve been around each other for the past month, but getting everything out in the open this way displaces the tension, makes it feel like something Bucky hasn’t felt in a very long time.

 

The first hints of sunlight are just starting to light up the sky when he feels his exceptionally relaxed and contented body stir to life. He’s happy enough where he is that he plans to ignore it entirely, but Steve’s hip brushes up against him before it’s gone away and his gaze shifts away from the window outside to Bucky’s lap.

 

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters. “It’ll distract itself in a minute.”

 

“Is that what you want?” Steve asks.

 

Bucky shrugs. He’s happy the way things are right now, thinks that maybe they’ve finally fixed the broken thing between them, or at least started to. None of that means he wants to become a monk either, though.

 

Steve reaches down to tentatively take hold of Bucky’s erection over top of his boxers. He looks at him as he does it, like he’s gauging Bucky’s response.

 

“We never did much beyond heavy petting once we got to the front,” he says. His grip is firm but restrained. “Went through all the trouble of being a lab rat and I never got a chance to see what I was capable of when I wasn’t dealing with a heart murmur and asthma attacks.”

 

“You’re really that curious?” Bucky asks, trying to hide how strangled his voice is, but not really sure why. His erection is considerably more insistent now, and it’s not like Steve’s going to miss that.

 

Steve makes a non-committal noise.

 

“Well, I kind of miss that dopey look you’d get after,” he says, voice fond and a little sad at the same time. “You had this _amazing_ grin and you’d look at me like…”

 

Steve trails off a little before he finally says, almost to himself,

 

“I think about it a lot.”

 

They’re quiet for a minute, and even though Steve’s hand has stopped it doesn’t move away, almost like they’ve forgotten what they were in the middle of before Bucky finally ventures,

 

“I guess I never thought you would have missed any of _that_ part of the way we were.”

 

“If it had to do with you, I missed it,” Steve says, softly.

 

Bucky leans over and kisses Steve’s temple, impulsively and a little awkwardly. Steve grins at him, his hand moving again.

 

“We’ve technically been together long enough to be getting something better than diamonds our next anniversary,” he says, almost conversationally. “Considering your fondness for orgasms and my obsession with your sex faces, it seems silly that we’ve never gotten more adventurous in bed.”

 

“What are you suggesting?” Bucky asks.

 

Steve smirks.

 

“Oh, something completely depraved,” he says, sarcasm radiating off of him. “Like maybe we could see what happens if I’m the one who tops.”

 

Bucky’s brain grinds to a halt at that and he stares at Steve dumbly for a few moments until a particularly pointed tug at his cock snaps him out of it.

 

“We’ve really never done that before?” He says. This seems like a gross oversight for his past self to have made.

 

Steve rolls his eyes.

 

“I suggested it a few times,” he says. “I’m pretty sure you were convinced you were missing out, but you always had a reason to shoot it down. I heard the phrase ‘heart like a leaky faucet’ come from you on more than one occasion.”

 

_That_ at least is a more satisfactory explanation. Also, Steve suggesting something dangerous just because he’d gotten it into his head that Bucky would like it seems like a very “Steve” sort of plan.

 

There’s a part of him that thinks he should say no, for no other reason than the fact that he’s the one who’s most interested. With the things he’s done, he’s still not convinced he deserves happiness, and whenever he’s presented with it, there’s always a strong urge to run the other way, back to the loneliness and self-contempt that he deserves. But Bucky is so _greedy_ for Steve, he can’t turn him away no matter how guilty he feels about it. He’s been lovesick over this man for such a long time that no inner voice can make him reject what Steve offers, whether it’s a shoulder to cry on or this.

 

Steve pulls on Bucky’s cock a little harder again, waiting for an answer.

 

“Okay,” Bucky says shakily.

 

“Yeah?” Steve asks, sounding both pleased and a little concerned. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, you know. If you’re not ready.”

 

His breath is hot on Bucky’s collarbone and Bucky thrusts up into Steve’s hand a little before giving him an exasperated look.

 

“Just checking,” Steve chuckles, as he gets to work tugging down Bucky’s sweats and boxers, shuffling down the bed to nuzzle at Bucky’s balls as soon as they come into view. His tongue comes out a few seconds later and Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head as he unsuccessfully stifles a groan.

 

He knows, somehow, that this isn’t something Steve likes much, although he can’t remember if he knows this because of a conversation or simple observation. It makes sense, with Steve’s fixation on Bucky’s reactions. Those are a lot easier to see when you’re face-to-face. Bucky resolves to try to make it up to him later.

 

He doesn’t feel the weight of obligation too much though, since Steve is obviously too impatient to finish what he’s started. After a few toe-curling moments where Steve switches from balls to cock and swallows Bucky down to the root (he never used to be able to do that without bringing on an asthma attack), Steve pulls off entirely and gets up off the bed to dig in the drawer of a bedside table.

 

“Um, Steve?” Bucky manages, feeling a little stunned. This isn’t how he pictured his morning going, although he’s certainly not about to complain.

 

“Give me a minute,” Steve says. “I think I still have supplies that a mortified SHIELD operative handed to me after I woke up.”

 

After a few more minutes of rifling around (when all is said and done Steve practically has to pull the drawer out before he makes a sound of triumph), Steve comes back to the bed with some kind of lubricant in one hand and condoms in the other.

 

“Really?” Bucky says, nose wrinkling in distaste. “Isn’t one of the bonuses of that serum supposed to be the inability to get sick?”

 

“For me,” Steve says, infuriatingly reasonable. “We don’t know for sure what yours does, and things are less messy this way.”

 

“Buddy,” Bucky says, mood slipping slightly. “If they gave you those when you woke up, they’ll going to pull to pieces as soon as we try to use them. If you’re set on condoms maybe we should do this another time?”

 

Steve gives him an unimpressed look.

 

“That whole ‘never seen latex’ routine would work better if you were talking to someone you weren’t sleeping with through the 30s. Come on, Bucky,” he wheedles. “Just try them. I swear you’ll be impressed.”

 

“Wanna feel you,” Bucky mutters, looking away as he tries and fails not to blush.

 

“But they’re so much better now,” Steve insists, and hell. Steve’s egghead is showing. There’s no distracting him when he gets like this. “They’re thinner and lubricated, and Sam says they fit like a glove.”

 

“He does, huh?” Bucky asks, amused. “You two talk about condoms often?”

 

“No,” Steve says, red now himself. “But they may have been brought up when we were talking about field supplies and how inventive you still have to get sometimes when you run out of dry bags in a combat situation. You know how good prophylactics used to be for waterproof storage.”

 

Bucky says nothing and Steve actually looks at the ground and shuffles his feet a little. He looks like he did when Bucky caught him trying to sneak into the army for the third time.

 

“Well… they’re even more durable now, and some of the tests you can run on them are sort of… amusing.”

 

Bucky looks into the box.

 

“You and Sam used up an entire box of condoms for water fights, didn’t you?”

 

The silence would be an answer in and of itself, but after a long pause there’s a very quiet, somehow defiant “you can make windsocks, too” from Steve.

 

Bucky reaches out with his real hand and grabs at Steve, pulling him back onto the bed.

 

“You’re ridiculous,” he says, fondly. “Okay let’s find out what condoms of the future are like when they’re used for their intended purpose.”

 

Steve beams at him and then leans forward to kiss Bucky leisurely until their earlier focus returns. It’s not long before Steve’s hand cautiously edges back to Bucky’s hole and suddenly Bucky’s figuring out that mankind has advanced beyond Vaseline, too.

 

“ _Oh,_ ” he says, trying not to go cross-eyed just from Steve playing with him.

 

“You used to do this sometimes before,” he asks, looking at Steve intently. “Right? I liked it?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, leaning forward to kiss Bucky softly. “Back when I was at my sickest, it was about all I could manage. Are your opinions any different now?”

 

“God no,” Bucky manages, as Steve’s finger dips in further and further with each pass. “Don’t stop.”

 

“Okay,” Steve says, getting that same quiet, delighted look on his face that he used to wear when this happened and he was in a much smaller body. Bucky has to fight against the conflicting emotions that well up inside of him when he sees it, because everything feels so good right now, but he’s missed that face so much (even when he didn’t realize it), he wants to cry.

 

His eyes slam shut, pointedly ignoring Steve’s amused huff of laughter, when Steve stops playing and breeches his hole for real. His finger crooks just slightly and Bucky knows he’s going to start panting soon, but he doesn’t mind. It feels good not to care, to trust the space he’s in and the person he’s with.

 

“Steeeve,” he whines in frustration, hips trying to follow Steve’s finger as he pulls it out.

 

“You are really impatient,” Steve observes as the finger comes back, joined by a friend this time.

 

“Been waiting for 70 years,” Bucky manages, biting his lip before he can break off into a moan. He’s not sure why he’s bothering. It’s not as if he has any dignity to speak of at the moment.

 

“Yeah this has been a long dry spell, even for us,” Steve says.

 

Bucky starts to pull Steve towards him by his shirt, desperate to have him closer faster, when he registers that Steve is still wearing his shirt. He distracts himself from what he wants long enough to manhandle Steve into a position where he can get his clothes _off._ Suddenly it occurs to him that he’s maybe being too demanding. He’s still not used to trusting his instincts this much.

 

“This is okay?” He asks cautiously, nervously twisting at the shirt in his hands.

 

Steve smiles at whatever expression he’s making a little sadly before he murmurs,

 

“It’s okay.”

 

“Sorry,” Bucky says, knowing that he’s killing the mood. “Sometimes things stop feeling real, or _I_ stop feeling real, and I don’t know if I’m screwing up or not.”

 

“You’re perfect,” Steve says, pulling his shirt away from Bucky’s hands and tugging it the rest of the way off. He drops his head down to rest against Bucky’s, letting his naked skin brush against the entire length of their bodies.

 

“Good,” Bucky manages. He still feels awkward and maybe a little out-of-sync, but he doesn’t feel alone either, and that’s always something.

 

***

 

So yeah. Sex is still really, _really_ enjoyable to Bucky, although he maybe has to work a little harder to stay in the moment. And there are definiteadvantages to Steve’s government-issued body.

 

“We’re never doing this any other way again,” he gasps out as his hips jerk upward to meet Steve’s movements.

 

He feels like he’s being pulled apart at the seams and he never, ever wants it to stop; wants Steve to pump his hips harder, faster. Steve almost definitely can pick up on Bucky’s desperation, but he’s also an ass and seems happy to ignore it. He sprawls out on top of Bucky, not quite letting his full weight rest on top of him, but not trying too hard to avoid it. It feels good, more like he’s being covered than pinned. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t want more though. Steve pointedly ignores Bucky’s near frantic movements beneath him and unhurriedly grinds his hips, which feels wonderful and maddening at the same time.

 

“So condoms,” Steve says. “Pretty good, huh?”

 

“Rogers, for God’s sake,” Bucky gasps out. “Yes fine, they are much better now. Would you _move_?”

 

“I am moving,” Steve says, his hips emphasizing his point with another slow roll.

 

“You’re such an asshole,” Bucky says. “I’d thought that I must have got wires crossed when that started coming back to me, but no. You really are a jerk.”

 

“Hmmmm,” Steve hums out his agreement, but he lifts himself up a little and starts to move with more force.

 

When Bucky comes it’s almost embarrassingly fast. He decides he doesn’t care.

 

***

 

 “What,” Bucky asks, sitting down on the couch next to Clint. “Is _that_?”

 

“My good friend,” Thor booms, good-naturedly (he knows it’s good-natured, but it still makes his breath catch every time). “Are you not familiar with the delicacy that is New York pizza?”

 

“I’m familiar with _pizza_ ,” Bucky says patiently. “Someone made it for me once during the war. That isn’t pizza.”

 

“Oh my _God_ , Barnes,” Stark complains loudly and nearly indistinct around his mouthful. “The war is _over_. Freaky things happened, and apparently not even pizza was safe, but that’s in the past now. Eat your damn supper and let it go.”

 

He all but flings the box into Bucky’s face and Bucky wonders why he thought it would be a good idea to come down to the common floor before Steve was ready to join him. Screw impressing his boyfriend, Bucky obviously can’t handle the dual trauma that is interacting with these people _and_ the weird shit they do to their food. (No matter how many encouraging thumbs up Sam gives him when he thinks no one else is watching.) He pokes at a slice cautiously before Tony shakes the box impatiently and he finally picks it up. He squints at it.

 

“Why is there so much cheese?” He finally asks.

 

“You are so tragic,” Clint tells him in dead earnest as Natalia chokes back a snicker.

 

“I wasn’t aware you were stationed near Naples during the war,” Pepper says calmly as she delicately picks at her own slice. Of course Pepper is the one in the room who knows the history of pizza.

 

“Wasn’t,” Bucky says. “I think there was an informant from there. Maybe.”

 

“You’re right,” Steve says, walking up behind him. Bucky keeps his sigh of relief to himself. “He fed us more than just information. Made a pretty good pizza, too.”

 

“Who the hell makes pizza without cheese?” Clint demands, obviously unable to get past this piece of information.

 

“The oldest types of pizza have very little cheese, or no cheese at all,” Pepper says. “I’ve tried to get Tony to try it a few times.”

 

“Anyone care to ask how well that goes over?” Tony asks.

 

“I’ve tried to convince you to eat macaroni and cheese with truffle oil in it before,” Bruce says dryly. “I don’t have to ask.”

 

Bucky lets the words wash over him as Steve comes and sits on his other side. The squabbling still doesn’t sit in his ears quite the way he suspects it should, but it’s becoming less exhausting to listen to at least. The way the team expresses their fondness for each other through bickering is no different than how Sam and Steve and Natalia interact with one another, just on a much bigger scale. He lets his body relax in increments over the meal, thinking maybe he’ll be able to get the feel for these people after all. The pizza isn’t bad, either.

 

That optimism suffers a bit of a blow when Thor is clearing away boxes and suggesting “iced cream” for dessert, when the elevator door chimes open and a very angry man in uniform stalks onto the floor.

 

“What did you do to my phone, Tony?”

 

“Cupcake!” Tony sounds delighted, raising both arms in over-the-top greeting. “Care bear! Why didn’t you tell me you were stopping by? I’d have made sure the super soldiers saved a slice for you.”

 

The man glances in his and Steve’s direction and momentarily looks pained, his body writhing slightly like he’s trying to fight back an instinct to salute. Even Bucky has gotten used to that look since he’s been back. It’s the combined effect of being in the service and seeing a childhood military hero, and it looks a little bit like Lucky when Clint and his protégé Kate come back from a mission at the same time and he doesn’t know who to greet first.

 

“Hello,” Steve says, deliberately casual, which seems to help the man snap out of it at least a little. “Colonel Rhodes, right?”

 

“Yeah. Yes,” the man says, smiling but obviously still too caught off guard to drop all the formality. “I’m flattered that you know who I am.”

 

“I’ve read your file,” Steve says, still grinning. Bucky begins to realize that his deliberate calmness might not be just for Rhodes’s benefit as he feels the tension slowly start to ease out of his own limbs, too. “You’ve done some pretty impressive work, Colonel.”

 

“Oh. Well,” Rhodes actually fidgets and tries to hide a grin. “Thanks. Um, you can call me Rhodey.”

 

Tony has been watching the exchange with growing distaste and doesn’t seem to be able to keep quiet about it anymore.

 

“Hey Rhodes, did you come here to visit Grandpa or me?”

 

Rhodey’s jaw clenches and Steve grins at him as he says.

 

“I also had an idea of who you were because only one of Tony’s friends would come in here with that look on his face without instantly trying to kill him.”

 

Rhodey snorts a little at that before levelling his glare back at Tony, pulling out his phone to thrust it into the other man’s face.

 

“Fix. It.”

 

“Oh! Is there something wrong with your phone?”

 

“Yeah. It fell into the hands of a 12-year-old boy trapped in a grown man’s body. I know you’re the one who changed the ringtone to fart noises, and I know you’re the one who disabled silent. I have to use this thing at _work_ , Tony.”

 

“I think you’re mistaken, Rhodey,” Tony says, in that horribly reasonable tone of voice that Bucky has quickly learned always means he’s guilty. “I haven’t seen you in months. How could I have done anything like that to your phone? Are you sure you didn’t just change the settings yourself and forget?”

 

“You built the damn thing and don’t even pretend that you don’t have backdoors built into every piece of tech that you give to me… Stop giggling just because you got me to say ‘backdoor,’ Tony. It’s not that funny.”

 

“Agree to disagree,” Tony says, still chuckling. “Besides, I need that access to your electronics. Your Netflix queue is better than mine.”

 

It feels like watching a ping pong match. A loud, showy ping pong match where each competitor is doing a terrible job at pretending they don’t love the back-and-forth. Bucky feels a little dizzy, and suddenly he’s grateful that all the other people here spend most of their time shutting Tony down when he gets worked up instead of egging him on. Tony looks delighted, but Bucky feels like he needs a nap more than ever.

 

“I’m glad you brought up my Netflix account,” Rhodey says. “Stop adding soft-core gay rom-coms to my queue. It’s screwing up my personal recommendations.”

 

“You know if you would just answer my texts, I would probably be too busy to watch sexy movies as I pine for you,” Tony says.

 

“I’m not answering your texts, Tony,” Rhodey sounds like this is an argument they’ve had many times before.

 

“Why not?” Tony demands, whining. “We’re smart, sexy, masculine men. If we don’t talk about our fantasy football league how will anyone know we’re friends who aren’t interested in each other sexually?”

 

“We don’t _have_ a fantasy football league, Tony,” Rhodey practically shouts. “You’ve never held a football in your life, and don’t even try to pretend you wouldn’t sleep with me in a heartbeat if you had the chance.”

 

“I would never,” Tony sputters.

 

“He would,” Pepper says casually as she leans in to pluck the phone from Rhodey’s hand to fiddle with the settings.

 

Bucky feels the tension building up in his stomach as he looks around the room in bewilderment, waiting for someone to ask what feels like the obvious question. Either everyone has decided that nothing Tony does makes sense, or this is ground they’ve already covered. He could just wait until the new person is gone, he reasons. Stay quiet until the unknown threat is no longer there, but the more he sits, the more he realizes that he doesn’t exactly feel threatened. He trusts everyone in this room (and when did _that_ happen), and if they feel comfortable enough to keep eating pizza and treat the new addition to the room like he’s a character in some particularly entertaining reality show, well, that’s good enough for him.

 

His stomach still feels like it’s trying to crawl out of his throat, and he knows he sounds forced but finally he manages to look away from the new guy long enough to ask,

 

“Tony, if you don’t want to sound like you want to sleep with the man, why do you call him Cupcake?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you wondering, in my mind Sam and Steve totally took off with the wings one day to run their own [windsock test](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kd7c-QGE8MM). Steve had a light breakfast and Sam carried him, and they went as fast as they could as Steve held onto the condom. And they spent the day laughing like delighted idiots over their airborne condom windsocks. Because if I have the mental image stuck in my head, the rest of you should, too.


	5. The Drowned Ceremony of Innocence, Part Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I am SO sorry that this took so long to get to you. Between massive writer's block during editing (and who even gets writer's block during _editing_?), an unending parade of colds, flus, and strep throat (note to all of you: do not get strep throat. It is not fun.), and finally the internet connection from hell, this took way longer than I was expecting.
> 
> But no matter, the important thing is that it is finished now so woooooo!
> 
> Instead of rambling, I am going to post this before my internet betrays me again.
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta [Moments of Weakness](http://archiveofourown.org/users/MomentsOfWeakness/pseuds/MomentsOfWeakness), who does stuff like flatter both me and my headcanons by pointing out that my Steve is a very angry one and that it fits. Oh and also fixing my mistakes. That's good too.

 

 

 

 

Bucky has participated in far too many assassinations over the years to not notice when he’s being watched. He knows Steve hasn’t been standing behind him long, but still he _is_ watching Bucky train intently. In Bucky’s blind spot in a room full of weights and heavy objects, no less.

 

“You looking to get stabbed, Stevie?” He asks, not unpleasantly, because he’s not exactly mad, but he wants to make it known that he’s not impressed with Steve’s self-preservation instincts.

 

It’s been well over a year now since the Triskelion (it’s almost been a year since Congress) and he feels more like his old self than he ever thought could be possible, but Bucky still has nightmares where he loses control and hurts Steve. Steve sneaking up behind him when they’re both vulnerable isn’t going to help him shake off the paranoia.

 

“Sorry,” Steve says, making an apologetic face. “I forgot.”

“Did you want something?” Bucky asks.

 

Steve shrugs a little helplessly.

 

“Maybe your help?” He asks. “I’m not sure.”

 

Bucky sits quietly for a minute as he tries his hardest to give Natalia a run for her money in the inscrutable department. Usually when Steve needs to deal with something unpleasant or talk about something he thinks Bucky won’t like, he approaches the conversation with confidence. Steve has always hid his uncertainty under a lot of bluster and an air of authority. He doesn’t hold back or act like he wants to be somewhere else. This side of Steve only ever makes an appearance when he’s feeling guilty.

 

“What’s wrong?” Bucky finally asks when he can’t take patiently waiting any longer.

 

Steve offers another noncommittal shrug and if there’s one thing about Steve Bucky hasn’t missed, it’s the man’s inability to admit he has a problem.

 

“Was just watching the local news with Sam,” he finally says.

 

“Okay,” Bucky says, slowly. “Why?”

 

“Sam wanted to watch the Adorable Adoptables.”

 

Of course he did.

 

“And you need help talking him out of getting a kitten or something?”

 

Steve smiles a little, but it’s weak.

 

“No,” he says. “They ran an interest story, after about New England Native Americans and their efforts to save their languages.”

 

And _there_ it is. Bucky knew this would happen eventually.

 

“Oh,” he says.

 

“Yeah,” Steve says, and then after another pause. “I think they might have interviewed someone from his tribe.”

 

“What is it exactly that you need my help with?” Bucky asks.

 

If he could kill everyone all over again, he would. All those weeks he spent showing remorse to Congress investigators weren’t a lie, but the truth is most of his regret came from his lack of control and not the murders themselves. He regrets being stuck in the passenger’s seat instead of being the one who was driving. He’s not an instinctively violent man on his own, but when the people he loves have been hurt, causing pain is definitely something he seeks out.

 

“I don’t know what I need,” Steve admits, “but I feel like I need to do _something_.”

 

“Can’t bring him back,” Bucky says.

 

“No,” Steve agrees. “But I don’t even know what happened to him. Didn’t we always say we would tell his folks what happened once the War was over?”

 

“Can’t do that anymore, either,” Bucky says. “It’s been over 80 years.”

 

“But maybe there’s someone else,” Steve says, eyes incriminatingly bright. “Maybe someone else is out there who doesn’t know, but always wondered.”

 

He sits down next to Bucky on the bench, staring hard at his hands.

 

“I don’t want the two of us to be the only ones left who care about what happened to him.”

 

Bucky leans over and puts an arm around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him closer.

 

“So we won’t be. If we figured out all the stuff I did off the books over the last seven decades, I’m sure we can track down Lloyd’s family, too,” he says. “Don’t let this keep eating at you, okay?”

 

“We should have done it ages ago,” Steve says. “Before the War ever started.”

 

“Maybe,” says Bucky. “There are a lot of things we should have done differently, and maybe if we weren’t two terrified, fucked up kids, we would have known what those things were. But you weren’t born with all the answers, Steve. No matter what the Smithsonian says. It’s not your fault life got in the way.”

 

***

 

Steve decides that he doesn’t want to contact the reservation until he knows if anyone has ever found out what happened to Lloyd. Bucky would rather get it over with, even though he doesn’t tell Steve that. If they’re going to do this, he would rather do it as quickly as possible instead of having it looming over their heads, but this _is_ more for Steve’s peace of mind than his, so he follows Steve’s lead. Personally, he doesn’t think they’ll find anything.

 

“Maybe someone in his family has spoken publicly about what they know and what still needs to be explained,” Steve says. “I just need to know what we’re walking into.”

 

There’s a chance that Lloyd’s family did try to find him at some point. From what Bucky can remember, they seemed close. He’s nowhere near as convinced as Steve seems to be that they made any progress, though. Steve Rogers and James Barnes are names that feature prominently in Lloyd’s life and death. The fact that no one knows about their past at the school indicates that no one knows about what happened to Lloyd either. On the other hand, the takedown of SHIELD put enough information into the universe that Bucky can’t shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, has figured out his and Steve’s past. It’s unfathomable to him that so many hints could be given, but still no one has stumbled onto the truth. Sam isn’t as convinced.

 

“No one at HYDRA figured it out, either,” he points out. “They personally witnessed your revenge campaign for decades. I think sometimes even bad guys try not to see the truth of how badly people can damage each other. Maybe especially bad guys. It must be harder to keep hurting people if you see the aftershocks it leaves behind.”

 

Leave it to Sam to be weirdly optimistic about humanity, even when he’s talking about HYDRA. And anyhow, even if someone somewhere knows about him and Steve, about Lloyd, he doubts that that information was passed to Lloyd’s family.

 

Bucky is still reacquainting himself with tact, even after all this time, but he thinks he shows good restraint by not pointing out that Steve is obviously stalling. He’s pretty sure they could just call the reservation, ask about unsolved missing persons cases connected to Indian boarding schools, and get it sorted out right in an afternoon without turning into the Hardy boys. But Steve is treating the whole thing like a huge mystery that needs solving before they can move forward. Like having done appropriate amounts of research will be proof to Lloyd’s surviving family (if he has any) that Steve is sorry about what happened. That he really did care.

 

At the heart of it, Bucky thinks Steve still can’t quite stomach the idea of admitting what happened at the school. He’s sort of built his whole honest Abe persona around that one lie, that one omission, and the thought of letting go of it has to be intimidating. Not that he can blame Steve for trying to cling to his privacy. No one else at the tower is either. Some even try to be extra accommodating when they hear about their plans. Even JARVIS seems to be helpful beyond his usual programming when it comes to tracking down information online after Steve haltingly asks if he can help them find more information about what happened to the school. For something created by a Stark, he shows an impressive amount of sensitivity.

 

“Of course, Captain,” JARVIS says. “Perhaps a good place to start would be the documentary made in the 1970s about the effort to shut the school down. No student names are revealed but the experiences of several are discussed at various points. You may recognize your friend in one of them.”

 

Steve makes a strangled noise when they sit down in front of the TV to watch and not three minutes in, an old, weathered couple appear with the names Joseph and Helen Bowers showing up on the bottom of the screen. Bucky almost asks who they are before the pieces fall into place. He wants to comment but suddenly finds himself unable to do so. He’d never imagined what they would be like old.

 

“We knew we had to do something,” Mrs. Bowers is saying. “It didn’t take a genius to realize that something very, very wrong was happening on those school grounds. The hard part was forcing everyone around us to stop ignoring it.”

 

“We’re still trying,” Dr. Bowers says, and Bucky realizes then how tired he looks. Tired, and fed up, and as determined as ever. His mind flashes back to that same determined expression on a much younger face.

 

“They spent their whole lives trying to close one school?” He asks.

 

“JARVIS,” Steve asks quietly, “When was this made?”

 

“The movie premiered in 1973,” JARVIS says, quietly like he’s trying to avoid drowning out the documentary. “It was nominated for an Academy Award later that year, although it lost out to a documentary about cowboys at the rodeo.”

 

“Really?” Bucky says.

 

“I believe the actual scandal may have still been too close for comfort when the votes were cast,” JARVIS says.

 

The movie shows the long, frustrating journey to close the school, starting to follow the effort in the mid 60s, although the Bowers and their recruits say it’s been going on much longer.

 

“These two have been fighting the same fight for _decades_ ,” says a young man pausing from what appears to be some sort of letter-writing campaign. “The doctor would spend his free evenings skulking around the property like a creep, waiting just in case a scared kid would break out, and then he’d start pestering them before they’d get to the end of the block: ‘Are you hurt?’ ‘Is anyone inside hurt?’ ‘Does anyone need a doctor?’ ‘Do you have somewhere safe you can go?’”

 

“Yeah, we still patrol sometimes,” says one woman with an awe-inspiring afro. “Mostly just to make Dr. and Mrs. Bowers feel better if they’re getting worked up. Neither of them are really up for late night stake-outs these days, especially since the school added guards, but they get really unhappy when no one can be there. And we love the Bowers. No one wants to be the reason they’re unhappy.”

 

“I always knew the school was there,” Dr. Bowers is saying, as the footage cuts to an interview with him. “I didn’t know much about the place – it was so far away from my home – but I knew of it. Then one night back in, oh…” he trails off, and Bucky ducks his head before JARVIS notices he’s tearing up over an old man losing his train of thought in an interview.

 

“1932!” Comes from off-screen.

 

“Dammit, Helen,” Dr. Bowers shouts back. “They’ve already talked to you! If they wanted you to keep going you’d be in this room beside me.”

 

He shakes his head at the interviewer in disbelief. Bucky can hear a poorly muffled chuckle from whoever it is asking the questions.

 

“So anyhow,” Dr. Bowers says, back on topic. “I got a call from a patient who was working on a corner not too far from the docks, telling me that I needed to get over there right away, because there were a couple kids dying in the alley, trying real hard not to get noticed by anyone official. There had been extra patrols in the area lately and he was scared to draw attention to himself personally. Didn’t want to get arrested for solicitation and lewd behaviour while wearing a disguise in public or whatever else they could find to charge him with.”

 

“Wait,” says the interviewer. “Your patient was a male prostitute?”

 

“Oh son,” says Dr. Bowers. “Do you think Stonewall invented that?”

 

The camera cuts away again to the man with the letters, grinning hugely.

 

“He said that to you?” He breaks off to laugh for a few moments before getting himself back under control. “It’s kind of a trip, isn’t it? Talking to them? Nobody expects Joseph and Helen.”

 

JARVIS is right in that the documentary looks in close detail at a few of the students’ lives, but unless they are there to give the interview, no names are revealed. Including their own.

 

“It’s a respect thing,” says one of them, much too young to be contemporaries with Steve and Bucky. “None of the Barry’s students would ever reveal the identity of another student, and neither would anyone who’s helping them. The Bowers sort of started that, I think. They’ve worked with so many kids who came from there, and a lot of us are pretty skittish about who knows. They get that, and they made a point to keep our secrets, even if it means it takes longer for the school to shut down.  The only people who have a right to tell are the people who got hurt. We’ve all been hurt enough, you know? Everyone deserves their dignity.”

 

But despite the anonymity, much is still made about the mysterious duo who started the Bowers on their quest.

 

“We’ve helped so many boys over the years,” Mrs. Bowers says. “None of them ever stuck as close as the first two. We didn’t have children, you know.  We never had the time. But I think of those two as my children. They would come to us for advice in their personal lives and stop by to visit well into their 20s.”

 

“Why did they stop visiting?” The interviewer asks.

 

Mrs. Bowers’ face grows tired and sad.

 

“They died. In the war. Both decorated military heroes, and I know they agreed so strongly in what they were fighting for. It doesn’t make it any easier though.”

 

The documentary ends on a bittersweet note, almost immediately after word comes that the school is going to close its doors for good. The Bowers obviously don’t know what to do with themselves, now that their longest battle is suddenly coming to an end with very little fanfare and, for them, no denouement. It ends with them abandoning the documentary crew to go visit a war memorial.

 

The apartment is silent after the credits start to roll. No one says anything for a long time.

 

***

 

Bucky is surprised at how tight-lipped the Bowers remained about what caused him and Steve to run from the school in the first place. There is some description of the state they had been in: one boy clearly healthier than the other and scared out of his mind; the other one weak and slight, almost dead from a severe beating and sexual assault. They don’t mention Lloyd though, beyond a cryptic “there had been three boys originally, but the third never made it to us. They were always too upset to explain what exactly had happened.” So the movie isn’t much of a help, ultimately, although Bucky doesn’t think he’d trade in the ordeal of watching it. Of getting to see the Bowers again.

 

After that they spend a little more time looking into the building itself, to see if there are records of any bodies found on the property, or if there is any current information about the school at all. JARVIS leads them to a website that explains that all the auxiliary buildings have been demolished to make way for housing, although the central building is still there.

 

“Initially the plan had been to convert it into housing,” JARVIS says, summarizing the information he’s found. “But unfortunately there were rather a lot of rumours about bodies being hidden on the property, and people were reluctant to even use the space for businesses, let alone as apartments. It’s rumoured to be one of the more haunted places in Brooklyn.”

 

“I guess it would be,” Steve says.

 

After standing vacant for a considerable amount of time, and amid rumours of possible demolishment if proper upkeep wasn’t maintained, a couple of non-profit organizations eventually set up headquarters inside. One was rather perplexingly a group that focused mainly on training childcare workers to work with at-risk children, and the other was a historical society.

 

“They made it a museum?” Steve asks.

 

“Somewhat,” says JARVIS. “Its main function appears to be the aforementioned training facility, which is quite expansive and well-regarded. However a significant portion of the building was preserved and restored to resemble the school through the years, and guided tours are featured heavily for anyone who is interested in the history of reform schools in America. I believe from the map that they have restored a well out back, two classrooms and the front entry, and one of the dormitory halls.”

 

“Well, I’ve seen the place already, so I’ll probably skip the tour,” Steve says, dryly. “And I’m not exactly itching to call them up and talk about all the reasons I want to know about old school records and bodies. Do they have any way to request more information on their site?”

 

It’s a trail that ultimately goes cold. There have only been three bodies excavated from the grounds, all victims far after their time. It makes Bucky feel ill to know that if they hadn’t been dumb enough to get knocked out of commission during the war, they could have come back and stopped those deaths from ever happening. He doesn’t say anything out loud though. Not when he can look at Steve’s face and tell he’s thinking the same thing.

 

***

 

Steve has… difficulties with technology in the future, Bucky has learned. It’s not that he doesn’t know how to use it properly either, no matter how many jokes Stark makes. Steve is more than competent with any piece of equipment that gets thrown at him – better than Bucky is sometimes, if it’s anything that isn’t primarily used as a tool or weapon. Steve’s problem is more with the ideas and opinions that are handed to him through the technology. He doesn’t struggle with them so much as rages against them, especially when they’re wrong. Needless to say, Steve is often at odds with the internet.

 

Sometimes it’s just with the people Clint explains are called “trolls”: people who are either too young or too dumb to realize that being an asshole isn’t funny or brave. Basically they live in the sewers of society but think everyone else is beneath them. Bucky finds them a strange combination of annoying, sad, and he has to admit, entertaining. He certainly doesn’t condone people who call every girl a slut and every guy a fag, or white 14-year-olds who think they’re anything other than pathetic when they call other white people “nigga”, but God, they’re a _mess_. He’s taken to reading the comment sections on news sites because of the warm glow he feels when he realizes that even with his past, he’s still somehow better than these people. Steve, on the other hand, usually opens an account of his own and gets into fights with them.

 

“Steve,” Bucky says, trying to tear Steve’s attention away from his furious typing. “You can’t win a fight with a person who counters every point you make with one of four different party lines. That’s not a debate, it’s like fighting with a parrot.”

 

“One of those party lines is, ‘You’re wrong and I think Captain America would agree with me,’” Steve snaps. “How am I supposed to ignore that?”

 

“You know that cat you showed me with the grumpy face?” Bucky tries again. “You know she’s not really grumpy, Steve, but you don’t see her owners correcting everyone. This is just one those things that keeps being repeated until it loses all meaning. It’s called a meme, right? You don’t _have_ to fight for your honour when someone says it.”

 

Even worse than the trolls though, are the people like Steve, or at least the people who are Steve-like: passionate about what they believe in, desperate to make the world a better place, not likely to keep quiet about injustice. It’s almost wonderful, seeing so many people now who care so much. The only problem is that the internet tends be a place where people feel free to speak first and think later. About the only thing that makes Steve angrier than a bully is running across someone as mule-headed as he is.

 

It’s not a major problem when Steve sees someone whose only sin is being wrong (Steve would never get mad at unintentional ignorance). But _willful_ ignorance? God help them all, Steve does _not_ handle it gracefully.

 

“Oh my GOD. Modern science did not find a cure for _polio_ just so some Dumb Dora on wifi could bring it back because needles are scary. She should try decorating her living room around an _iron lung with a child inside it._ THAT would be _scary._ ”

 

“Okay honey,” Pepper says, reaching across the coffee table to pull the tablet out of Steve’s hands. “Time to put the internet away now.”

 

“But Pepper,” Steve protests, almost frantically. “Have they even seen anyone with smallpox? Do they understandthat the mumps can _kill you_?”

 

“I know,” she soothes, almost clucking in her put-upon sympathy. “But I promise you Steve, you can’t change their mind no matter how often you hit the caps lock key.”

 

“It’s a side-effect of a society that confuses ignorance with sincerity and patriotism,” Tony says. “You get used to it after a while.”

 

Steve only makes an unhappy sort of whimpering sound. Bucky pats him on the shoulder. Steve never could handle problems that he couldn’t fix. When they’re alone or with Sam, Bucky usually distracts him with cuddling, but with an audience, shoulder pats will have to do.

 

He’s not prepared to admit it to the other Avengers, but he likes the way the closeness feels, and it makes Steve happier than anything. He’ll go limp and lean back into Bucky’s chest, eyes narrowing like a cat in sunshine. Sam says it’s precious. Bucky mostly wonders if it’s the time they spent sleeping, in ice and in tanks. Maybe they weren’t aware they were alone for so long, but their bodies still felt it. Maybe it’s their way of making up some of the lost time.

 

It doesn’t always work though. One night Bucky wakes up when he wraps his arms around Steve’s midsection in his sleep and registers that his entire body is rigid. Bucky wakes up instantly, looking for trouble as always, but when he follows Steve’s gaze he finds a powered-down laptop on the desk instead.

 

“That computer kill your family?” Bucky asks, sleepily.

 

“Did I wake you up?” Steve asks, not looking away. “Sorry.”

 

“You should be,” Bucky says. “You sulk so loud science should start testing _that_.”

 

Steve smiles for half a second, but his body stays as tense as ever.

 

“Come on, Steve,” Bucky cajoles. “Neither of us is gonna get any sleep until you talk it out.”

 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Steve says.

 

“Do you mean you don’t want to talk about it or you don’t want to talk about it to me?”

 

Steve sighs so Bucky pushes a little further.

 

“You know I’ve remembered almost everything now, Steve, including the look you get when all you wanna do is tell someone off. Hell, even if I hadn’t remembered yet, I’d be very familiar with it by now.”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” Steve insists.

 

“Why shouldn’t I get to worry about it, too?” Bucky asks, although in reality he suspects that he’s more likely to tell Steve to stop being an idiot instead of joining him. “It’s already keeping me up.”

 

Steve doesn’t answer for a long time, and Bucky is debating whether or not he should needle at him some more or just give up when,

 

“You’re not a rapist.”

 

“Um,” says Bucky. “Thank you?”

 

Steve gives him a “you’re not helping” look. Bucky raises an eyebrow back.

 

“It’s just someone was saying some stuff online,” Steve says, looking at his hands.

 

“They were calling me a rapist?”

“They were saying that having sex with asexuals was forcing them to do something they couldn’t agree to,” Steve says. “Like the lack of sexual attraction makes you unable to understand what you’re getting into or something. It’s stupid. I shouldn’t let it get to me. Sorry.”

 

“ _Oh_ ,” says Bucky.

 

He’s been in control of his own mind long enough now to realize that asexuality is a concept that confuses him as much as it does Steve. Still, even with their admitted bewilderment, it’s obvious that Steve fits the bill. When they were growing up the amount of sex a person wanted was never a factor in making someone queer. It mostly only got people in trouble if they reached spinster age without settling down and making babies like good god-fearing Christians, but things change. Bucky figures it’s his job to be adaptable to the future. If everything’s about sex now, then fine. People being so comfortable with who they are that they feel safe enough to intentionally draw attention to the ways that they’re different is kind of nice, to be honest. Even when people draw baffling conclusions from it like this. Which of course Steve would find to get worked up about.

 

He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face when he says,

 

“You’re still the same old Steve underneath all that muscle, aren’t you? Always so mad at everything, always looking for that one fight you can win that’ll solve all the problems of the universe.”

 

Steve doesn’t smile back. He looks so agonized in the faint light that Bucky begins to feel worried again. Apparently, this isn’t going to be something that he can tease Steve out of.

 

“You know, our relationship never made much sense in the 30s, either,” he says. “And we’ve got the law on our side these days. Why are you so worried about one person’s crazy opinion?”

 

“Because what that person was saying isn’t true,” Steve grits out.

 

“Of course it’s not,” Bucky says, feeling even more confused because Steve’s eyes are watering a little now. “But it’s hardly the popular opinion.”

 

“It’s not fair to you,” Steve says. “People have spent the last 70 years making you become something you’re not and now that I’ve got you back, I’m making you a rapist on top of what you’ve already been through?”

 

“No,” Bucky says, slowly. “We just covered the part where that’s not happening. Is this about you having second thoughts? You know I don’t mind if you want to stop, right?”

 

“No,” Steve insists. “We work, and I like the way we work but I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to put you in a position where people are going to think of you the way I think of… _them_.”

 

His eyes actually do brim over at that point and he wipes them away, angrily of course (just about the only way Steve cries is angrily).

 

Bucky is quiet for a long moment before he says,

 

“I didn’t know you still thought about it so much. I never hear you talk about it.”

 

“Of course I think about it,” Steve mutters. “Just because it was my fault doesn’t make it easier to get over.”

 

“Okay hang on,” Bucky says, sitting up a little. “Since we’re talking about this, can we do it on the understanding that _nothing_ was your fault?”

 

“When you screw up, you have to suffer the consequences,” Steve says. “Every time I try to play the hero someone dies. Feels like I have it coming.”

 

“So what,” Bucky asks. “Getting raped and crashing the plane was just the universe’s way of punishing you?”

 

He feels a little hypocritical right now. After all, he’s had similar resigned, guilty thoughts himself when he wakes up from a nightmare. He’s done a lot of bad things, failed a lot of people. It’s natural that he suffers because of it. He’s also spent enough time in Doc Samson’s office to know none of it is true. Steve says as much to him, too. Why on earth would he think the same logic doesn’t apply to himself? He’s supposed to be the smart one.

 

“It sounds stupid when you say it out loud like that,” Steve admits.

 

“Well, stupid things have a way of sounding like that,” Bucky says. “You know you sound like me on a bad day, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says softly. “This is a bad night.”

 

Bucky leans over so he can throw an arm across Steve’s chest again and hold on tight.

 

“Listen to me, okay? If you don’t want to have sex we don’t ever have to have it again. You know that. If you don’t get anything out of it, I don’t want to get anything out of it, either. That’s the way it’s always been for us and it doesn’t need to change now. It’s not going to make me a rapist or anything worse than what I already am.”

 

“You hate what you think they turned you into,” Steve says, quietly. “I just don’t want to make you into someone else you hate.”

 

“And you’re not,” Bucky insists, feeling more conviction than he might have otherwise, if he weren’t trying so hard to convince Steve. If Steve wasn’t so shattered he’d almost think this whole conversation is an elaborate trap to trick him into admitting he’s still a good person. “Look, Steve… do you ever talk to anyone about what happened? Someone like Doc Samson, I mean?”

 

Steve rolls his eyes.

 

“Lots of worse things have happened to me, Buck,” he says. “And to other people around me. It’s not really something that deserves talking about.”

 

Bucky snorts.

 

“If you heard me saying that about anything, you’d be losing your mind right now,” he says. “It’s not the wrong thing to get help about if it’s the thing that’s twisting you up inside, Steve. And the only reason you’ve seen worse is because you jumped into an actual warzone. What happened when we were kids was still pretty bad.”

 

“I’ll think about it,” Steve says, in a tone of voice that Bucky can tell means, “I’ll do it, but only to make you happy.”

 

That’s good enough for Bucky, so he tugs Steve even closer and says,

 

“Stop thinking about the internet and go to sleep, Steve. None of this will be as important in the morning.”

 

***

 

It takes a long time. Lloyd’s parents had largely rejected the Anglicized family name as a form of protest back before he was taken away, and Lloyd had mentioned that thanks to a few lazy record-keepers, the last name he had at Barry’s wasn’t even the right one. On top of all that, most of the poorly kept surviving records were deteriorating before they were even copied onto microfilm.

 

Then JARVIS stumbles across a list of names online of students from an old Indian school in Maine that shut down in the 30s. Most of the transfer records had been badly destroyed in a fire, and there was a grassroots effort set up to try to track down the old students, to see if they had been sent home, to a different school, or had simply gotten lost in the system. One of the names is just listed as “Lloyd (?).”

 

Sam digs up records on the school, and sure enough, there’s a Lloyd who was attending the school around the time it had gotten shut down. There’s no family information still surviving, but there is a note with the tribe name, and it’s Lloyd’s. The records also mention a transfer to an “industrial school,” but water damage blurs both his full name and the name of the school.

 

“That’s got to be him, and I don’t think we’re going to find much more,” Sam says. “Maybe someone on the reservation will know where his family ended up, if there are any of them still alive.”

 

“This doesn’t make sense,” Steve says. “His family knew where he went. He wrote them letters. Why didn’t they speak up when the place was closed? Why didn’t they make more noise demanding to find out what happened to him? There should be articles about him _somewhere_.”

 

“Not everyone has a JARVIS scouring the internet for clues,” Bucky points out. “Or your ability to get answers. Maybe his parents died and no one else remembered where he’d gone. Maybe no one would admit to anything about that night and they didn’t know where to start looking.”

 

The upside to all of their field trips is the swarm of helpful librarians, who are _very_ eager to lend their expertise and research skills to Captain America. Back in the early days Bucky had wondered how he would deal with normal civilians looking at his boyfriend like he was a piece of patriotic meat, but now he mostly finds it funny. Steve’s stammering attempts at deflection are as bad as they ever were, and it’s comforting to see that somethings just don’t change.

 

Once they’ve gathered armfuls of research on the school, the Bowers, and the Penobscot, Bucky manages to get Steve to grudgingly admit that there’s really only one thing left for them to do.

 

“It’s okay if you’ve changed your mind,” Bucky says, carefully. “You don’t need to talk to anyone about it.”

 

“You know that’s not true,” Steve says. “They deserve to know what happened. Hell, even just the tribal leaders deserve to know. Especially since it looks like there’s so much work going into recording this part of their history.”

 

Bucky understands that, and he even agrees a little. But he still doesn’t think that Steve should have to be the one to talk about it if he doesn’t want to. Bucky is still pretty terrible when it comes to opening up and talking to people outside of their small circle, but Steve’s been looking after him a lot since he’s come back. If he needs to, he’ll happily go behind Steve’s back to talk to the right people and spare him the trouble of reliving any of it. Not that that wouldn’t make Steve petulant and angry anyhow.

 

But he also knows how Steve can be when he sets his mind to something, and he’s obviously decided that this is something he is going to do. Ultimately Bucky resigns himself to picking Steve up off the floor when it’s over, and making sure he doesn’t do it alone.

 

***

 

Once Steve finally gathers enough courage to email the cultural center to find out the visiting times and set up an appointment to talk to tribal elders and conservationists, he’s offered to “let Bucky off the hook” so often Bucky is getting ready to drag him down to the gym to knock a little sense into him.

 

“You’ve had a rough year,” Steve insists. “There’s no reason for you to come along.”

 

“You do realize I have most of my memories back now, right?” Bucky says. “I remember the stuff we promised each other during the War about making this right. Nothing about what I said has changed. We were both his friends, and we are both going to do this. We’re even bringing along moral support in case we need it. I will be fine, and so will you. Stop being an idiot.”

 

It doesn’t quite turn out that way. In the end their moral supports are waylaid by minor emergencies in New York and can’t come (this is what Steve gets for setting the appointment up on a Monday). Sam is kidnapped by eccentric scientists (Tony and Bruce) to test new flight equipment that ends up setting part of Manhattan on fire instead of giving him better air speed and is obligated to help put it out. Which is of course when their second support is called on to help fight a baby supervillain in Queens. Steve almost calls someone to cancel when he finds out about the Manhattan fire, since he says it leaves Natalia and Clint without any back up, but then she starts swearing at him loudly in Russian to get the hell to the airport or else.

 

“You think I can’t handle this on my own?” She spits, pointing furiously at the confused college-age student with the bad haircut and costume shop sceptre. “ _This_? Get out of my sight, Steve. And don’t come back until you’ve made peace with your past.”

 

“Listen to the scary Russian,” Clint advises as he uses one of his arrows to clean dirt out from under his fingernails, and yeah. Steve is _really_ not going to be needed to put an end to this. “If you play your cards right she’ll be waiting with popcorn and dumb movies when you get back, but if you keep insulting her honour like this, she’s going to set your rooms on fire.”

 

***

 

Steve is relatively calm for the flight to Maine, likely because Bucky still doesn’t do well with air travel. They’re in first class, but the other passengers are still too close, and he sits on his metal hand the whole time, irrationally terrified that it’s going to destroy the cabin if he gives it the chance. Steve smiles winningly and reassuringly at the nervous flight attendants, and calmly talks to him in a low voice for the entire flight. It’s not quite enough to distract him from how anxious he feels, but it does make him feel like Steve has his head on straight, and will be able to hold him back if he tries to do anything stupid.

 

That quietly authoritative demeanour evaporates as soon as they’re in the rental car. Even though Bucky is the one who insists on looking for tracking and incendiary devices, Steve is the one who looks like he wants to throw up as soon as they’ve climbed in. Bucky doesn’t even ask if he wants to drive or not, just takes the keys from Steve’s fist and starts to complain about how small cars are in the future.

 

He talks to Steve for the whole drive out, more than he thinks he’s done since they left DC, even counting his sessions with Doc Samson. He prods as gently as he can manage, trying to pull Steve out of his head, so he can avoid Steve doing something incredibly stupid, like maybe offering to kill himself to the first person they see once they hit the reservation. For all Steve likes to tell Bucky that he can’t take responsibility for the actions of others, he’s never been that good at taking his own advice.

 

The visitor center and museum is nice – you can go on tours and learn all about the local history and government. Bucky knows history has pegged him as a dancing, drinking ladies’ man with none of Steve’s eagerness to learn, but history is wrong about a lot of things. If Bucky wasn’t so nervous about the point of the visit (so he’s putting up a brave front for Steve, it still doesn’t mean he’s thrilled), it would be really interesting to learn a little more. To find out some of the things Lloyd always wanted to tell them, but never could.

 

Steve has managed to pull himself together once they reach the front desk, and the only thing giving away his anxiety is the rigid line of his back and the way he can’t quite stop the corners of his mouth from pulling down whenever he’s not wearing his “it’s all good” smile.

 

“Excuse me,” he asks the bored-looking young woman sitting at the desk as she fiddles with her phone. “My name is Steve Rogers and I have a meeting set up to discuss doing some research in your archives?”

 

The girl smiles to her phone as she sets it down, not looking up as she grabs a handwritten schedule by her elbow.

 

“Right,” she says. “The Star-Spangled Man on the band. Get it? Because Indian bands? Anyhow. We’ve been expecting you.”

 

“Um,” Steve says.

 

“Oh hey, sorry,” the girl says as she glances up. “It’s funny to me but with a name like that I bet you hear stupid… jokes… a… lot.”

 

She trails off so much and has gotten so quiet by the end of her sentence that Bucky has to lean forward to hear her. The movement draws her attention to him and her eyes go from wide to wider.

 

“Oh _shit_ ,” she says half a second before her hand clamps over her mouth.

 

“Ma’am? Are you okay?” Steve asks, uncertainly, and Steve is probably the only person in the country without a southern accent who can call someone ma’am anymore and not get a dirty look.

 

“I am so, _so_ sorry,” the girl gets out, cheeks going red. “I thought it was just one of those things where you were either someone trolling our email address or you had a funny name, like that one elementary school teacher whose name was Kaiser Soucy. I mean, why would Captain America be coming here, right? You’re not Native American, and you didn’t schedule a baby-kissing photo op, so it’s just not something I was expecting and you brought your right-hand man too and oh _God_ I’m digging myself deeper and deeper here, please help. Help me stop talking.”

 

The longer she rambles the happier Steve looks, like the opportunity to put someone else at ease is helping him to relax, too.

 

“I think technically it would make a lot more sense for Captain America to be Native,” he says, slowly, like he’s thinking it over (and since this is Steve, he probably is). “People can be pretty stupid about what ‘American’ looks like though. I know for a fact that my title could just have easily gone to a black soldier I knew in the war, but that wouldn’t have sold as many comic books, I guess.”

 

He shrugs a little helplessly, his smile dimming again, so Bucky throws caution to the wind and says,

 

“If they’da known what they were getting into when they gave it to you, they would have gone running to the hills, if it will make you feel any better.”

 

The girl seems to have picked up on Steve’s faltering mood, too, and she gamely offers up,

 

“Yeah, and in the 30 seconds I’ve known you, you’ve criticized American racism, the government, and sung the praises of Isaiah Bradley, so you’re already challenging my preconceptions in the best possible ways. If it makes you feel any better.”

 

Steve smiles at her full force now.

 

“It does, actually. Thank you.”

 

There’s a slightly awkward silence before Bucky finally gives in and gestures behind them to a row of chairs.

 

“So, should we just sit and wait until somebody calls us, or…”

 

“Oh!” The girl startles again and gives herself a little shake, like she’s trying to rattle her professionalism back into place. “Sorry about that. Yeah, if you just want to wait a second, I’ll go find my grandmother. I noticed in your email that you’re interested in finding information about someone from the boarding schools? My grandmother mostly works on cultural preservation here – recording old stories and language preservation and stuff like that, but she’s very good to talk to about the schools, too. She went to one for high school, and her older brother went missing from one when he was young, so she’s got a vested interest in keeping the records that we do still have safe.”

 

The girl scurries off down the hallway, while Steve stares after her, more than a little caught off-guard. Bucky can relate.

 

“You don’t think…” Steve starts, but Bucky breaks him off, grabbing at his hand to lead them to the chairs.

 

“Nope,” he says. “Not a chance. That’s ridiculous and there’s no way the universe is going to make things that easy. Not with our track record.”

 

***

 

“Lloyd was my brother’s name. We were never able to find any trace of him after Barry’s School told my parents he ran.”

 

The universe, Bucky decides, is a bit of a jerk. Sort of like the raccoon Lloyd occasionally told them about decades ago. Maybe there actually is a raccoon somewhere out there, laughing at them. The Norse trickster god turned out to be real, after all. It would be nice if some of the harmless ones really existed, too.

 

It hardly seems likely that there would be more than one boy named Lloyd taken from his family at the exact same time, but Linda White doesn’t actually remember her brother (“I wasn’t born yet when he was sent to the Indian school.”), and is hesitant to confirm everyone’s thoughts on the name and school alone.

 

“I have two pictures of him though,” she says, perking up slightly.

 

“I donated copies to the museum, just down the hall. It’s no trouble,” she says, when Steve starts to protest her sending Amy (the embarrassed secretary and granddaughter) off to get them, even though this is the entire reason they came. “You know what happened to him?”

 

Steve looks ill when he says,

 

“I think maybe we should wait to see if we can confirm it before we say too much.”

 

She doesn’t say anything after that, but the look on her face speaks volumes anyways. Like she’s resigning herself to hear confirmation of something she’s suspected for a long time.

 

Amy comes back after a few silent minutes with a small stack of papers in her hand.

 

“I brought a couple of his letters from the display, too,” she says. “We put one up from when he was in the Indian Boarding School, and one from Barry’s School. To give an idea of some of the similarities in how both institutions were run.”

 

She looks incredibly awkward for a moment before taking a deep breath and saying very quickly,

 

“There’s one part where he says he’s made friends with two older boys named James and Steve. I’d never made the connection before. When we learned about you in school, they always said you grew up in an orphanage.”

 

“Orphanage spins better for the propaganda films,” Steve says. “It’s easier to believe in the American Dream when he’s not a juvenile delinquent.”

 

He reaches hesitantly for the papers in her hand. “May I?”

 

“Oh, right! Of course,” Amy says as she hands over the pictures. Bucky leans in closer to look over Steve’s shoulder.

 

“He’s very young,” Steve says hesitantly.

 

“The pictures would have been taken before he went to the first boarding school,” Linda says.

 

Steve looks at her almost warily for a minute before he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

 

“I never had a picture of him, so I tried to draw what I could remember a few nights ago,” he says. “I thought maybe I could compare it with pictures you had on file. His age never occurred to me.”

 

“Steve,” Bucky says softly. “It’s him. You know it is.”

 

“Yeah,” Steve says sadly. He’s looking at the photographs like they’ve betrayed him in some way. Like a negative identification here would somehow change how everything played out back then.

 

“May I see the drawing?” Linda asks, and Bucky’s attention snaps back to her. She’s been quite composed so far, talking about Lloyd and his disappearance like he’s a sad story and little more. To her, that’s probably all he’s ever been, but now she seems hesitant. Her eyes get cloudy when Steve passes over the piece of paper.

 

“You’re very talented,” she murmurs, sad. She brushes away a few tears before saying, “I always wondered what he would look like when he got older. I always wanted a face to put to his letters.”

 

She looks up at Steve.

 

“He never got any older than this, did he?”

 

Steve huffs out a breath, and Bucky can see him reliving the final moments that he wasn’t there for when Steve finally says,

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

“It was bad?” Linda asks.

 

“It was very bad,” Steve says.

 

“Tell me?”

 

***

 

“Our parents eventually accepted that he had probably died,” Linda says. “He was so attached to them. Even if he had run away and had to stay quiet until he was old enough to avoid reintegration into the system, they were sure he would have tried to contact them as soon as possible.” She smiles a little wistfully. “On their good days, they would talk like he had died in Europe during the War. Fighting beside friends.”

 

Steve looks miserable and Bucky feels useless. In another life, he would know what he’s supposed to say.

 

Finally he manages,

 

“He would have loved to hear about the codetalkers. He was always angry that they tried to make him give up his language.”

 

It feels awkward and broken coming out of his mouth, but Linda smiles.

 

“He was?” She asks. “I didn’t know that.”

 

Bucky smiles shyly back.

 

“He was a troublemaker. It’s why he got on so well with Steve.”

 

“We should have done more to keep him safe,” Steve says, again staring at the pictures. “I’m sorry we let him down.”

 

“The school let him down,” Linda says, sharply. “The government let him down. It wasn’t your job to keep him safe.”

 

She stares at Steve for a moment before gently adding,

 

“Would you like me to get you copies of the photos?”

 

Steve nods so hard it almost looks painful. There’s another long pause before she holds up the drawing from Steve and asks,

 

“May I keep this one?”

 

“Of course,” Steve says, almost before she’s had a chance to finish asking. “It’s pretty rough though. I could make you a better one?”

 

Linda shakes her head as she stares at the lines on the page.

 

“I like this one.”

 

After a few more minutes she carefully says,

 

“I didn’t want to mention this, but… do you know where he is? Where they took him after, I mean.”

 

Steve shakes his head. “Not for sure. I never saw where he was taken.”

 

Linda nods.

 

“I thought as much,” she says. “I just needed to hear it. When my mother died she talked about his body a lot in her last days. Sometimes she wanted to lay flowers on his grave; sometimes she wanted his body brought back from overseas. She was very taken with the War theory in the end. Both our parents died before the stories about the school made headlines.”

 

“Why have they never looked for all the bodies on the property?” Steve asks. “Why did they stop at the three they found?”

 

“It was complicated,” Linda says. “And they did try. I asked officials about it before, when I was trying to find out why Lloyd disappeared from the school records so completely. But it’s a large property and no one’s ever found out how many unaccounted deaths took place there. They’ve never found more than one body at a time, and it gets expensive. Usually, unless they know for a fact where to find one, they leave it alone. People feel better not knowing how many bodies are buried in the middle of their neighbourhood, I think.”

 

Bucky has a few good ideas about where Lloyd would be, but he keeps them to himself. Linda looks intently at both of them and they must be wearing fairly similar expressions because she says,

 

“Don’t start thinking you have to lead the charge to bring him home – not if it’s going to be at your own expense. What happened to you at that school is your business, and you can’t exactly mention it without making headlines. You should be allowed your secrets.”

 

“Maybe,” Steve says.

 

“You’ve seen that documentary,” says Bucky, smiling.

 

Linda smiles back.

 

“I think almost everyone with a connection to the school has,” she says. “It must have helped keep a lot of student identities secret over the years.”

 

Steve doesn’t say anything to that, but Bucky can see the war playing out behind his eyes, between his instinctual aversion to pity and his equally strong instinct to take a stand and make things better.

 

***

 

“So when are you going to ask?” Bucky asks an hour later as they make their way back to the car.

 

“Ask who what?” Steve says.

 

“The owners of the school,” Bucky says, patiently. “The city. When are you going to go there with our story and ask if they’ll let us dig up their land?”

 

“Why would I ask them to do that?” Steve asks, evasively.

 

“Oh please,” Bucky says, “I could see the wheels turning in your head the second she mentioned laying flowers on his grave.”

 

“He doesn’t have a grave,” Steve says as they climb into the car.

 

“And that bothers you,” Bucky says. “It’s okay. Bothers me, too. We’ll need to have some sort of statement ready, in case the media figures out what we’re doing.”

 

“A statement?” Steve echoes. “You mean a reward for their poor behaviour.”

 

Bucky slams his head against the headrest in mild frustration.

 

“Steve, don’t start again.”

 

“They’re obnoxious,” Steve sounds almost petulant. “They’re rude and I don’t like them. I’m not talking to any reporters.”

 

“But we should be ready to,” Bucky insists. “You know how they swarm when a story involves one of us. If they find out where we’re going someone _will_ finally put together the pieces about who exactly I was killing and why. They’ll want to know why we were at the school and how we got out, and I bet some people will even start to make connections between us and the runaways that are mentioned in all those documentaries about the Bowers. Maybe they’ll even start harassing other old students during their hunt to find proof. It’ll be better if we’re not stumbling to catch up to everything when it happens.”

 

“We’re really going to do this?” Steve asks. “You’re really okay with it? With everyone knowing?”

 

“Not especially,” Bucky says. “But we can’t leave him there any longer than he’s already been left. It’s not right.”

 

“No,” Steve says, grimly. “It’s really not.”

 

***

 

Once the conversation in the car happens, it’s really only a matter of time.

 

“What the hell is that noise?” Bucky wonders as he walks back into their living room.

 

Steve looks like he can’t decide between a guilty expression or a defiant one as he slowly hands his StarkPad to Bucky. It’s open to his Twitter account and is dinging out near constant notifications. (Re-tweetings? He hasn’t paid much attention to this side of the future yet.) The last thing posted, minutes ago, is still visible. It’s a reply to someone’s tweet (a link and “I miss the good old days when boys became men without whining about it”):

 

_Asking for help isn’t whining & in the good old days people sounded like you so we didn’t bother. _

 

There’s a link in the original tweet, and when Bucky opens it, a news article about a teacher molesting her 15-year-old student opens.

 

“Aw Steve,” Bucky says, but he feels more fond than anything else. “You just can’t stop standing up for the little guy, can you?”

 

“It’s even harder to stop when you know what the little guy feels like,” Steve mutters.

 

“You’re getting a lot of messages trying to tactfully tell you that you made yourself sound like a rape victim,” Bucky comments, as he looks through to Steve’s Twitter feed. “You might want to clarify.”

 

He hands Steve the StarkPad and picks up his own phone, ignoring the calls that are arriving as fast as the previous caller can get redirected to voicemail in favour of looking for a Twitter app. How does that expression go? In for a penny, in for a pound?

 

It takes a few minutes to set up an account of his own (he wants to know why people were allowed to take jamesbarnes, jamesbbarnes, jbbarnes, wintersoldier, officialwintersoldier, officialjbbarnes, and buckybarnes before he got there, though). It takes long enough that Steve has time to follow up his initial message with a second:

 

_Thanks for all of your concerned messages everyone! Don’t worry. I meant it the way it sounded._

He includes his own link this time, to an article about the Barry School Museum titled “Honouring the Lost Children of Brooklyn’s Darkest Secret.”

 

“I think I just heard the sound of a thousand reporters wetting themselves,” Bucky says, idly, and before Steve can slap him, he asks. “How do you get that blue checkmark on your account?”

 

“Well, it takes a little while, but I’m not really sure how it happened. Pepper set mine up for me,” Steve says, before wrinkling his nose a little and asking, “Why?”

 

Bucky shrugs.

 

“So people know it’s me,” he says. “Don’t take this the wrong way, because I told you to tell people and I meant it, but hell if I want to go through this all again in another couple months. I am _done_ with reporters trying to find out my secrets, so I might as well tell them the rest of it now.”

 

_Since Steve decided we’re sharing tonight, you may as well know that we’ve been dating since 1934._

 

Steve glances over his shoulder and grins a little when he sees what Bucky just posted. He looks back at the StarkPad and a second later Bucky gets a notification of a new follower and… something happening to his post.

 

“Did you repeat me or star me?” He asks curiously, almost dropping the phone when it starts to clang out announcements of multiple new followers.

 

“We’ve got to train you on the lingo,” Steve says.

 

“Why are people showing it to other people just to call it fake?” Bucky asks, refreshing the page.

 

“People call lots of things fake on the internet,” Steve says. “It’s kind of a thing.”

 

Bucky follows Steve back just in time to see his latest post:

 

_Why would I have shown it to you if it was fake? He was sitting next to me when he posted it. RT “@offc_jbuckybarnes FAKE and not v. funny. Everyone’s made THAT joke before”_

 

Someone with an account named “starksmart” retweets (Duplicates? Carbon copies?) him with an additional comment that says “FINALLY. And turn up your ringtones/hearing aids. PR called, having kittens”

 

“Ugh,” Steve says, reading over his shoulder again. “I guess we should do something.”

 

“We could ignore them for a few more minutes,” Bucky says, leaning back against Steve a little. “Shove the phones under the couch cushions until JARVIS yells at us and pretend nothing’s changed.”

 

“Okay,” Steve says, agreeably, like he still isn’t tense as hell. “Let’s do that. Just for a few minutes.”

 

***

 

The fallout of what the Internet has started to call TwitterGayte (Bucky does not understand the future sometimes) hits them in waves. It sets off more chains of events than a Rube Goldberg machine. The media loses their minds, of course, going so far as to start aggressively stalking them whenever they leave the tower, hoping to either catch them being affectionate or breaking down crying as they reflect upon their hard childhoods.

 

Bucky could give a few less-than-complimentary comments on their intelligence for thinking that either is likely, but they don’t directly address him much anymore. Not since the last time they tried, when it resulted in Bucky asking Natalia how modern cameras worked before deciding the explanation was too complicated. In the end he’d just walked over to the photographer and ground the camera to pieces with his metal hand. He’d offered to buy a replacement right after, because he’s not looking to cause civilians even monetary pain these days, but the man had just run instead of answering. Steve tries to act scandalized about it, but the news quickly spreads, and Bucky sees the secretly smug look that comes over him whenever they see someone with a camera about-face when they see him on the street.

 

Interview requests start coming in through official channels, too. They don’t agree to those either. It’s not that they’re still trying to hide anything (obviously they aren’t), but Steve still hates feeling like a performing monkey, and Bucky can tell the idea of talking to anyone from an entertainment magazine makes him want to scream. Instead they pay attention to a small group of requests to see them, from a host of different people, none of whom have studied journalism or written for a gossip column.

 

The owners of the school building and museum tentatively reach out to them before Steve and Bucky have the guts to do it themselves. No one is really sure how to handle the meeting, and cautious offers are made to show them around the property, if they are interested in the school history.

 

“I’m part of the school’s history,” Steve says dryly. “I don’t need to know more about it.”

 

Still the offer isn’t a cruel one, just a rote one from a group of people who have long come to understand that survivors deal with their pasts differently, and they don’t want to risk anyone not receiving the kind of support they need. Even if it means they have to ask awkward questions. Bucky can’t remember if he or Steve are the first ones to mention the body. It’s obviously not the first time the owners have dealt with this kind of request, either.

 

“The more information you can offer us about what happened, the better chance we’ll get cooperation from the cold case division of the NYPD, and we really prefer to have them there. Even if no one ever gets charged, we want the crimes to be recorded. We don’t want anyone to forget.”

 

They don’t mention that anyone who could be charged in Lloyd’s death has already been killed by Bucky. As a way of thanking them for their tact, Bucky suggests that they look for the body where the old shed used to be, since it had a dirt floor and would have let the teachers dig unnoticed. He’s thought about that a lot over the years. Steve tells them about what had happened to Lloyd leading up to his death, and what had happened to everyone at the school, with strokes just broad enough to allow his voice to stay neutral and detached.

 

They’ve barely had a chance to set up a date for the exhumation and arrange for Linda to fly down when they get contacted by someone from the Bowers Foundation asking to meet and discuss some “confidential information.” It’s strange, but Bucky has never really thought about how their past stayed hidden over the years. He sort of assumed that since he and Steve weren’t there to say anything, it was natural that no one would know. On a certain level he was aware that many people who knew them also had to stay silent for it to happen, but he thought that was where it ended. He never thought it would have taken effort to keep the lie going.

 

Steve looks at him like he’s an idiot when he says it out loud and maybe that’s true.

 

The man from the foundation meets them in a conference room of the tower with a thick, very old envelope in tow.

 

“What’s in it?” Bucky asks, finally, when Steve obviously can’t bring himself to.

 

“No one really knows for sure,” the man says. “It’s been around longer than the foundation. We’ve always had a pretty good idea that it has to do with Barry’s specifically though. Instructions were left not to open it until the 100 year anniversary of VE Day, and since we always knew that the first boys to run from the school died in the war, well…”

 

“You think there’s something in the envelope that identifies us,” Steve finishes.

 

The man is so convinced that he leaves the room to give them privacy when they open it, and he’s not wrong. It’s full of medical records and notes in Dr. Bowers’ handwriting from the night they ran away.

 

It’s ghastly. Steve’s record is littered with worries about potential fractures and breaks, and bruised organs, and Steve’s disfigured face. There’s a pre-printed anatomical drawing attached where Dr. Bowers has re-created the worst damage, some of which Bucky hadn’t even known about, like the boot-shaped bruises on what was left of the skin of Steve’s torso. Like the fact that Dr. Bowers was worried about Steve bleeding internally and had been ready to take him to the hospital if he had shown signs of getting any worse. Harsh lines in now fading blue ink cover the back to show Steve’s whip marks, the infected lashes specially noted.

 

The notes belie the personal stake Dr. Bowers obviously already had in their well-being and often take on the tone of a journal entry instead of a medical history. He mentions thinking that they had to have been prostituting themselves, since he couldn’t comprehend another reason for an adult to be so sexually aggressive towards a child. He follows that up with their conversation about the attacker and his suspicions that they actually came from a foster home or the nearby reform school.

 

Bucky suddenly understands Steve’s reluctance to identify Lloyd’s picture the first time they’d met Linda. He’s irrationally terrified for Steve the boy all over again when he reads it. He reaches across his seat and hauls him into a hug. Steve hugs back for a moment (probably more for Bucky’s sake than his own) before pulling away and flipping to the final few pages, which are surprisingly about Bucky. His trust issues, his apparently heartbreaking constant state of panic, self-inflicted injuries he sustained going after Steve that Bucky can’t remember anymore. It paints a more muted picture of the night than Steve’s records, but still one that leaves no question about what happened.

 

“I never knew he did this,” Steve says, dumbfounded.

 

“He always wanted us to go to the police,” Bucky says. “I bet he did it so there would be documented evidence if he got us to change our minds.”

 

The papers go into a safe in their apartment. A part of Bucky wants to burn them, but it seems wrong after the Bowers went to so much trouble to preserve them while still protecting their privacy.

 

The exhumation obliges them to go to the school themselves, dodging the media camped out _there_ as they do. The twenty-first century is obnoxiously invasive. They spend as little time in the school as possible, even though Linda takes a bit of a tour. It’s just as well that they don’t join her. No one is too eager to join a tour that forces Steve to point out the exact spot where he witnessed a murder. Bucky does tag along to see the dorms when he hears that his and Steve’s was turned into office space. It’s a much better look for the room overall, even though the flooring and the radiators are still the same. There’s even the same gap between the floor and the radiator where Bucky hid Steve’s letter. Part of him wonders if it’s still there.

 

They find the body at dusk. Or rather, they find _a_ body. There’s nothing left to identify it anymore, save for the odd bit of badly disintegrated rubber that may have been the soles of shoes at one time. Steve looks a little green at that, and manages to mutter that he’d lent Lloyd his Sunday best during their first escape attempt, including his good shoes.

 

“It was the only change of clothes I had,” he mutters. “I couldn’t get to any of his without getting caught.”

 

They leave before the police officers on the scene announce anything to the press but Linda and Amy stay, as the supposed family of the victim. Nothing is to be confirmed until the DNA tests are returned. Someone inevitably asks about Steve and Bucky, and the clip that airs on every news station is Linda politely and somewhat menacingly saying that she had been contacted by two men some time ago with new information on her brother.

 

“Maybe they were famous,” she says. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask for picture ID to confirm who they were.”

 

“You two find the best people,” Sam says as the news station they’ve landed on cuts back to the reporter. “Those feisty old people from the documentary, this feisty old lady on the news, me.”

 

“Feisty old Sam Wilson,” Steve agrees amiably.

 

It feels like there might be a natural lull in their own personal _This is Your Life_ episode after they’ve been to the school. They’re wrong of course, but at first it seems logical. DNA tests take a long time to finish and a long time to analyze. They’ve already done everything else they set out to do once they got their footing in this new century. Or almost everything. (Sometimes Steve twitches a little when he stumbles across another report about their lives full of gossip and speculation, like the inaccuracies upset him, but the idea of talking about it upsets him even more.) Then they get a phone call from someone who says he’s a trustee of the estate of Rich Andrews.

 

“I have a problem that Rich left me with. I think the two of you are better equipped to deal with it than me.”

 

When the word of their deaths first hit the papers back in the 1940s, Rich and Cal had been scared. They were scared that the government would swoop in and pour over Steve and Bucky’s personal effects, upending their life together, exposing their secrets, and in the end their legacy would be buried and forgotten or maybe even condemned. So they convinced the landlord (Bucky thinks his name was Frank?) to let them into their rooms before anyone else arrived, taking away Steve’s sketchbooks (which held the most incriminating evidence of their real relationship) and even going so far as too push the two beds to opposite sides of the room.

 

“Why didn’t they say anything once the laws began to change?” Steve asks, frowning a little.

 

“Cal told me once that by then they’d been protecting your secret so long they didn’t really know how to let go,” the man – Rich’s nephew says. “They kept waiting for someone to say something, but when no one did…”

 

“They didn’t want to be the ones who broke first,” Bucky guesses.

 

They look through the sketchbooks and the few polished pieces Steve had completed. Amusingly, the naked figure sketches of Bucky are probably the least incriminating things there, since they’re surrounded by sketches of other naked people and covered with notes in Steve’s handwriting (tips from his self-appointed teachers about how to capture the human body). The ones of hands holding hands, of Bucky’s adoring face, of Bucky asleep in an obviously shared bed speak much louder.

 

There’s one finished piece he doesn’t remember ever seeing but does remember posing for, when they were very young still and Steve was being taught foreshortening. He remembers standing on the new-to-them table and reaching down trying not to laugh as Steve prattled on about how important it was to be able to visualize the proper angle. Back then he had been grinning, reaching down towards Steve and trying to convince him to climb up and join him, to see how dirty it was on top of the cupboards. In the drawing he looks worried, and he must have made that face at Steve a lot back then, because it looks pretty accurate even though it was drawn from memory. The background is the typical scrawl of black that Steve had been partial to at the time, but Bucky’s form is teased into prominence, almost looking like he’s hallowed by a spotlight and is trying to coax Steve into following him.

 

Rich and Cal even salvaged a couple doodles Steve had scribbled out the first few days after the attack from when they were staying with the Bowers: dark huddled figures so surrounded by that constant darkness they’re hard to spot, faces hidden. They’re nowhere near as skilled as the later work, but they scream the loudest out of anything there.

 

 “Wow,” Bucky finally manages, after the man has gone and they’re still stuck staring at the pictures.

 

“What are we even going to do with these?” Steve asks, frowning a little.

 

“Hang them?” Bucky suggests. He thinks they’re really good.

 

“I don’t like that on so many fronts,” Steve says, wrinkling his nose as he holds up one of the shadow pieces. “I don’t really want to see these every time I go into the hallway. Not to mention the technique is terrible.”

 

Bucky laughs at him a little, and eventually they go next to the papers in the safe.

 

***

 

The test results come back and they aren’t a surprise. The body is Lloyd’s. The small press release brings another wave of interview requests from people who want to know more about why two national icons were involved in the exhumation of a young Native American murder victim. Both Steve and Bucky have decided that they really can’t let this go without speaking out about what happened. Not after the Soldier’s victims have become common knowledge. Not when they’re the ones who opened the can of worms in the first place. They still don’t grant any interviews.

 

***

 

Several weeks after the reporters have finally given up, a new addition is added to the cultural history museum at the reservation in Maine. It’s a small one – a rough hand-drawn sketch of a young boy attributed to S. Grant Rogers and a small write up on a plaque describing how the boy died and how long it took his body to come home. It is hung next to a letter from the boy, describing the only friends he has made at the new school he has been forced to attend after his parents were deemed inappropriate influences.

 

Aside from a notice in the reservation newsletter, it is months before anyone notices the change. Steve is by turns annoyed by the lack of interest and pleased that no reporter has tried to pull the focus of the display from the schools and cultural genocide.

 

***

 

The additions to the Lost Boys Museum in Brooklyn are realized much faster, but it still takes over a week. There are some angry comments from reporters and magazine editors in opinion pieces – vaguely-worded digs that chastise leaders who don’t use their celebrity to shed light on an ignored problem. A few historians make comments about society’s obligation to preserve history. These are followed up with a different wave of vaguely worded attacks, targeting the ones who started to complain in the first place. Overall Bucky finds it a very passive-aggressive way to express dissatisfaction, but at least no one’s getting shot.

 

There’s really not much to complain about, anyhow. Steve and Bucky both gave permission to both museums to reveal as much of their story as they felt necessary, and there’s more than enough information to write all the articles anyone wants. The Lost Boys Museum is used to retelling the stories of reform school students by now, and worked hard to present a respectful coherent picture of all three students’ time at the school. They managed to dig up an old article about the milk initiative and provided background information about the ways in which it failed at its goals. They’ve set up a display with Dr. Bowers’ notes (only his overall write up and Bucky’s assessment, as they provide more than a clear enough picture of what happened that night, and Steve’s are deemed a little too gruesome). They put three of Steve’s drawings on display (two of the shadow figures and the one of Bucky reaching down). They even managed to pull up the floor boards by the radiator after Bucky mentioned Steve’s letter. Thanks to how tightly it was wedged between the floor and the joist, there are even a few miraculously surviving fragments. The message itself is unreadable of course, and they can only display a picture of what they found because of the deterioration, but you can still make out all three names. Both museums are in talks with the Smithsonian to help add to the information in the Captain America exhibit.

 

Bucky thinks they’re doing pretty good on the “raising awareness” front, once people take the time to listen. If their lack of cooperation makes the media angry, that’s just a bonus as far as he’s concerned.

 

Maybe one day they’ll sit down for that interview and talk about the school. Maybe Bucky will try to explain what it was like being the Winter Soldier, and Steve will try to explain exactly how he sees his sexuality. For now this feels like enough. They aren’t talking, but their story seems to be able to speak for itself when given the attention it deserves. It is after all, a familiar one – easy for the public to understand when it’s stripped down to its basics. Things were hard; they fought to make them better. They’ve lost pieces of themselves they can never get back; they picked themselves up and healed the best they knew how.

 

These aren’t difficult concepts for anyone to understand, and Bucky’s already talked about this too much. He’s talked about it more in the past few months than he’s _talked_ in the decades he was away from Steve. It’s history’s turn to do the talking for them both and for now, it’s enough.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Vexingly pretentious title is still from the kickass Yeat's poem ["The Second Coming."](http://www.potw.org/archive/potw351.html) If anyone would like to see me avoid my fanfic responsibilities and get way WAY too invested in the Steve/Bucky pairing, you are welcome to check out my [tumblr.](http://fireflyca.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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